A Parallel View
by FusseKat
Summary: 11th Chapter - A Valentine's Day story - The Language of Flowers . Goren and OC, Blake Jamison. A series of looks at two people trying to make their way through life. Each new chapter is its own story. Please consider leaving feedback for each. THANKS!
1. The Gift

DISCLAIMER: Dick Wolf, NBCUni and probably several other have rightful claim to most of these characters - not I. Detective Blake Jamison is however, an original character of mine. This disclaimer applies to any and all future chapters in the series...

A/N - A big explanation here... OK. If you've read any of the other stories involving this pairing of Bobby Goren and Blake Jamison you know them as a series of fluffy airy and just fun ficlets. Well, forget everything you've read. I'm starting over. I'm reinventing the wheel. (LOL)

If those stories would be considered Alternate Universe (AU) - I ask that you consider these Parallel Universe (PU) - an unfortunate arrangement of letters, one I'm sure (VD)O could appreciate. The premise of a parallel universe is a little sci-fi, but I assure you the stories are not - at least not any more than any other AU fics.

This is the beginning of a new series of stories similar to the other Bobby and Blake stories, but rather than light, airy fun fan fiction, these will be a bit darker with more angst. They will remain as individual snapshots - moments in time - connected only by the story of Bobby and Blake.

I really hope you like them. I have several of these new 'moments' written and it won't be long before I post another - if you like this one. These are as much fun for me as the other Bobby and Blake are, who I'm not abandoning to write these.

Special thanks to CIFan for being my test subject...

Each 'chapter' will be its own unique story, so please consider leaving feedback or comments for each intallment. As always thanks for reading!

* * *

The Gift

The two – one man, one woman – slowly approached her apartment building. "You really didn't have to," Blake commented again, with an awkward laugh. Fifteen minutes earlier, they had left the restaurant where several of her co-workers had taken her out to celebrate her birthday. She was referring to, of course, to Bobby Goren's insistence on escorting her to her door, something she had repeatedly told him was unnecessary.

There really being no good reason to turn down the offer, so she had graciously acquiesced to the polite almost stranger. He may have been a co-worker and fellow detective – and even someone her thoughts had occasionally strayed to, but until this evening they'd scarcely said more than a half dozen words in the more than six months since she'd joined Major Case. To be honest, there was also an element of curiosity at play.

"On the contrary," he replied, "I consider it to be my duty. Even if it were not merely good manners, I promised Eames I'd see you safely home. As much as would I like to pride myself on being a man of my word; the ire and wrath of my partner is by far, the greater of driving forces."

Smiling and nodding her head, "I have noticed that about Alex." She snuck a sidelong glance at her escort and saw the faint curve of a smile. His humor was maybe a little dry, but that was a quality she appreciated.

Wasn't it ironic that, like her, he was not revealing the full truth either?

Yes, he was indeed a man of his word. Integrity was one of the few things 'they' had not managed to strip him of, even during the recent chaotic and fateful days, he managed to hang onto that. His word would retain its value. And yes, as a gentleman, he considered it his duty to see the lady home. Especially, since his presence at her birthday dinner had been foisted upon her, at the last minute - at Eames' instigation.

There was something else. Somehow, he knew that this woman needed to be returned home safely. That her safety was - or would be - of the utmost importance.

How did he know that? And why did he care? He didn't know. But he did.

He had already taken more than a few covert glances at his companion, throughout the evening, trying to discover exactly what it was he was sensing. Certainly there was an attraction, but it was more than that. There was always more, things were never that easy and simple for him.

"Well," he began, with a cheerfulness that felt forced and unfamiliar to his ears, "I hope you weren't too terribly disappointed by the evening. It seemed that there were times when you wanted to be anywhere but there."

She nodded, unsure what the 'correct' answer should be. "It was very nice," she replied, aiming for a level of ambiguity. To offer an enthusiastic and gracious reply, while still suffering from the unease at being in the spotlight all night was a difficult line to walk. "It was very illuminating. And loud."

"It will go down in the annals of history." He wryly commented, before asking, "Illuminating? How so?"

His voice was quite soothing and his demeanor so much more relaxed than she'd ever witnessed before was causing warning bells to go off in her head. She smiled nervously, before replying, "'In the annals of history' that's quite grand for a simple birthday dinner. But illuminating in that, I could never have imagined I knew so many detectives who could sing so horribly. A Karaoke bar of all places, do I really look like someone who 'Karaokes?"

Unable to suppress a soft chortle, he choked out, "Not particularly."

Stopping outside her apartment building, she turned to face the detective she'd barely said two words to, prior to tonight. "Well… this is me. Again, thank you for seeing me home."

"It has been my honor," he demurred, accompanied by a slight bowing of his head. Then he took her fingers, holding them gently and properly between his own for a moment.

"Well, good night then. I'm sure we'll see each other around the squad room soon." She marveled at how small and delicate her hand looked next to his. She wasn't particularly small or delicate. This was another flash of illumination.

"Of that I'm sure. Good night." He stood, watching her as she turned toward the outer door of her apartment building. "Umm…"

She stopped, closing her eyes. She'd prayed to avoid the awkwardness inherent in 'good nights' at the door. Not that this should be an awkward situation – they hadn't been out on a date or anything similar – but still there was something… She plastered a smile on her face, before turning to face him.

Seeing her look back at him expectantly, he hesitated. He quickly gathered his thoughts before he could second-guess himself, he began, "I wanted to say how sorry I am, that … that I didn't know that it was your birthday. How sorry I am that we've barely even spoken since you transferred in."

"Oh…" This was far from what she'd expected. Truthfully, she'd been expecting to ward off an advance. She couldn't honestly admit that it would have been an entirely unwanted advance. There was something… intriguing about Alex's partner. "Ummm, an apology isn't necessary. It… it isn't a big deal. We're all very focused when we're on a case and… and preoccupied. It isn't as if I'd made much effort …" her reply trailed off and she smiled up at him, a genuine smile that came easily, "I'm glad you were able to come tonight."

Once again, it was his turn to be uncomfortable. He averted his eyes and nodded, almost shyly, before looking at her again. "So… so am I." Shifting his weight, he pointed back the way they'd walked, "I really should let you get inside. I'll be going now. Good night again." He continued to shift his weight restlessly for a minute, before nodding as if he'd answered a question he'd posed to himself.

"Good night." She continued to watch as this seemingly internal dialog played out.

Finally deciding on a course of action, he was the one to turn away, leaving her to continue watching him as he walked away through the light and shadows cast by the streetlights, finally receding into the darkness. When she couldn't see him any longer, when his footsteps became lost in the sounds of the city, she turned with a sigh and went into her apartment building.

Early the next morning, she stepped off the elevator on the eleventh floor, already tired. The party had not continued very late, she'd been escorted home by the fairly early hour of 10 pm, but she had been unable to sleep – a combination of circumstances – she rarely slept well when she drank too much, but her thoughts kept returning to her enigmatic escort home. She was aware of some of the trials he had been through in the last year or so. Most everyone in Major Case had at least a passing knowledge of his embattled state. She found it easy to empathize with his seemingly endless escalating tragedies. She found herself chastising herself, _"You do not need a project. You do not want to take this on. It is too much."_

Rounding the corner into the squad room, she could see that Goren was already presumably already hard at work. Not that she actually saw him working, but he suit jacket hung precisely from the back of his chair. She glanced over to see if Alex was at her desk, directly opposite his. She was and Blake realized that Alex had been watching her, and probably had since she paused and stood staring at her partner's desk. Flustered at having been caught, Blake smiled and waved, before as she continued to her own desk.

Pulling out her chair, she sat, closed her eyes and began a morning ritual. She always took a moment, she needed only a moment or two, to shut off thoughts of her life, block out as much as possible that was her – it was necessary for her to be able to focus on 'the job' - to get into the right mindset to investigate the monstrous evil men – and women could do. Straightening her shoulders, she slowly released the deep breath as she reached for the handle of the desk drawer where she kept her personal things. She froze as she looked into down the drawer. In the spot where she normally dumped her bag, sat a gift-wrapped package. Slowly raising her eyes, she scanned the squad room, looking for anyone who might be paying special attention. She saw no one, though she had her suspicions.

She quickly scooped the package into her tote bag, stood and walked purposefully into the nearest empty interview room. Placing the package on the table, she took a seat in front of it. She was stunned; she was having trouble forming coherent thoughts. Slowly she reached out and caressed the red velvet bow before carefully removing it and easing the black box from its glossy whit wrapping. She was speechless when she saw it. It was a black lacquer keepsake box, with small shaped pieces of inlaid mother of pearl depicting an Asian garden scene. The artistry was remarkable; delicate bonsai trees, imposing pagoda arches providing background details. The foreground featured and a young woman in traditional kimono crossing a small footbridge, across the footbridge waited a young man, arms stretched out in welcome.

Running her palm across its smooth surface, her breath caught in her throat. She didn't think anyone had ever given her such a lovely gift. She lifted the lid and found a small note card with her name on it. Opening the card, her heart skipped a beat, as she read,

_"In hope that you will accept this small token I offer - as belated birthday gift - as amends for failing to take the time to get to know you sooner. _

_Bobby."_

He had seen her enter the interview room and presumed she had found the gift. Walking past his desk, he quickly detoured to duck into the adjacent observation room. He watched as she sat staring at the package before sliding it hesitantly and delicately from its wrapping. His confidence rose as he saw a smile begin to play across her lips as she fingered the delicate design on the box's lid. His confidence soared as the smile grew as she read the card. He watched her stand, he watched her begin slowly pacing around the small room, her gaze never leaving the lacquer box. His exhale eased into a relieved sigh. He knew a decision had been made, a decision that allowed him the hope he requested in his note.

He left the observation room, granting her the privacy to gather her composure to face the rest of the day. Back at his desk by the time she exited the interview room, he discretely watched her progress back to her desk. When she had put her things away – just as she'd tried when she first came in – their eyes met across the room. Neither looked away and after several moments there passed a nearly imperceptible nod of her head and a ghost of a smile quirked one corner of her lips.

He was about to push himself up from his chair as Eames came striding into the squad room, blocking their view of the other. "Detective…" she uncannily mimicked Danny Ross's tone and delivery, "the captain wants us in his office for 'a moment'." Bobby collapsed back onto his chair, leaned back to stare up at the ceiling before popping back upright.

"Of course he does. Why wouldn't he?" Bobby exhaled the words with barely concealed sarcasm. He jerked to his feet, eased into his sport coat and followed his partner into the captain's office, all the while sensing a pair of green eyes following his progress from across the room.

* * *

More to come...


	2. Sleight of Hand

The story continues...

* * *

Sleight of Hand

It was with quiet stealth, that Bobby emerged from the kitchen, as he heard a soft scraping from the entry. He lived alone and there should be no noise in the apartment apart from the sounds he himself created. Pressing himself flat against the wall, he peered around the corner to see, to his utter surprise … a box.

A wooden crate, more precisely, sitting alone on the floor.

Bobby approached, a knife held ready in one hand. He'd been making a sandwich when he heard the noise and had kept hold of the carving knife he'd been using to slice turkey for his meal.

That's when he heard the footfalls. Ones he recognized, despite the heavy tread they currently that announced their approach. It was Blake, and he stepped away before she could catch him looking so puzzled by something as simple as a box.

"What's the knife equivalent of 'don't shoot'?" she asked when she came round the corner, motioning her head toward the knife he held. She was carrying another crate, her feet shuffling under its added weight.

He immediately set the knife down on the bookcase near the door, and he moved to take the crate from her hands. "Hello Blake," he greeted, torn between the nagging worry that these repeated visits of hers were not, in her best interest and the undeniable thrill her simple presence brought to his flagging spirit. _What was he going to do?_

"So, what's in the boxes?" he asked, more than a little perplexed. He could have sworn he'd heard a metal clank as the crate shifted under his strength.

"You'll see," she smiled mischievously. "There are five more out there."

Bobby peered out the door, a little concerned. "Is someone helping you?"

Blake's eyes narrowed in surprise, almost hurt that he would suggest such a thing. "No, it's just me. All by my lonesome."

He nodded thoughtfully. Her assertion could be read several ways, both positive and negative. It was most probably a show of support and understanding of his reticence to socialize. But at the same time, it also did a splendid job of reminding him exactly how far in the shadows his own life remained as opposed to hers. Life had always been so much easier when it was built on clear objectives and goals. When trivialities and nuances hadn't bothered him so much.

Blake was already off, heading back out, not bothering to puzzle out what he was thinking, "I rented a pickup to bring them here, but I want to get them up here before anything gets lifted. They're a bit of a puzzle, and it won't work unless all of the pieces are there. Come help me?"

Her odd statement snapped Bobby out of his brooding reverie - a new riddle to ponder - and he put down the crate he was holding. "Sure, I'm right behind you," he insisted, and set out to follow her to the elevator.

Two hours later, Blake sat on Bobby's sofa, watching him fumble with screwdrivers, pliers ... even a riveter. Apparently, he had a well-stocked tool supply.

Behind her, a science fiction show was flickering on the television, one from her young childhood, It was something she should have enjoyed watching. But it played on alone, ignored by its former fan.

It felt just to watch him again, this man she was falling in love with. The most basic healing of all, just to watch him working - living and breathing - only twenty feet away. But this, watching Bobby move around the room, assembling the gift she had brought, there was nothing else like it in heaven or earth.

"You're staring, Blake," he stated, taking her a bit by surprise. He did not address her in any way beyond the words - perhaps in bashfulness - as he expertly took a pair of pliers to his task.

And quite out of the blue, it became one of those moments where she nearly found herself weeping.

Yes. Indeed. She was staring. Thank God above and every fate below, for such simple pleasures. Perhaps it was good that he wasn't looking, as she swiped her hand briefly to her eyes. "An interesting turn of the tables, wouldn't you say?" she replied in as strong of a voice as she could muster.

It prompted the smallest nod from Bobby, his hand pausing motionless for a moment. He'd done the same to her earlier. Staring – and he knew, deep down, that he'd be doing it for years to come, as long as she continued to remain within his sight.

Which only made him question, yet again, if this really were for the best. ... That she continue to be drawn here.

"Is it similar enough to the one you had as a kid?" she asked, diffusing the moment. She referred to the magician's blade box he had nearly assembled.

"I believe it's a bit taller," Bobby remarked. "Has nearly an inch of advantage over me." Then he glanced toward her, "But that should only require a slight adjustment. Have no fears." As he picked up a sword and slid it home.

Blake laughed. "Good. I almost chose the guillotine trick, but thought that was just a tad too gruesome.

"Maybe a touch." He admitted, with a grin.

Deliberately, and with much pride, Bobby picked up the second sword. He took a breath, letting it out in a puff of thought. She really was getting to know him well.

"If you want to play with it, I won't laugh," she reassured with minor amusement. "I promise."

Still, Bobby said nothing, lifting the sword in front of him, balancing its weight in one palm for a moment, and then holding it in defiant challenge, accepting the challenge of the box.

And then, swinging the sword over his head in the most expert arc, he lunged to deliver a level, deadly blow to the box's side. It did Blake's heart to see him come alive in a burst of energy. Only with Bobby's strength and reflexes, could the blade flash so quickly through the air, then be restrained so delicately when it finally collided - metal on wood, to penetrate the box.

"This really works best with a pretty girl in the box…"

Blake watched him, as he twirled the sword, flourishing it with what she thought was a certain artistry. She stood and came around the sofa, pausing for a moment as she teased, "I'll go see if I can find one for you."

As she started to walk towards the door, he reached out and grabbed her hand to stop her. "Why go looking for one, when there's one right here. But if you're afraid…" He caught and held her gaze, as he held her hand.

Her breath and a joking retort caught in her throat as she looked up at him. She was afraid, all right, but not of the blade box. She'd felt her heartbeat accelerate as he'd taken hold of her hand and her mouth go dry. Her reaction to him had been frightening her for weeks.

So quiet was her reply, that he had to lean closer and ask in a voice almost as quiet, "I… I couldn't hear…"

Clearing her throat, she tried again. "I wouldn't say 'afraid', so much as cautious."

Again, he felt her response held layers of meaning. He held her hand a moment longer, savoring the moment of small victory, then retreated in another surge of energy. Backward he went, twirling the sword in an expansive, spinning circle at his side. It was done almost mindlessly, just as she'd seen him do with a knife, only now taken to new level of impressiveness with such a giant blade. Even the air around him was in awe, whistling with a hollow beat.

She returned to her place on the sofa, kneeling on the cushions, leaning against the back to watch him at play. What attracted her attention the most, was that intense stare Bobby was giving his foe, the mystery of the black box. The swing of the sword was secondary. Not even done consciously, but with great showmanship. He was planning his next attack, the exact moment and placement of the sword. His next skill to practice. His mind was working. That wonderful, brilliant mind of his.

She was on her feet before she even realized it, moving around the sofa as if drawn by an invisible force. A pull she recognized more than she was willing to admit. And as she grew closer, the twirling of the sword stopped. Bobby sensed her approach, and knew instinctively to stop the blade before it could inadvertently cross her path.

"Let me try?"

"I can't tell you how it's done, you know."

"I know, I know, it goes against 'the magician's code'."

"Don't mock the code." He admonished.

She eventually convinced him to let her try her skill - or lack thereof - on her own. It was semi-successful, producing only a few comical moments when the blade would become stuck halfway through the box and Bobby would have to help her.

"What do you say to some teamwork, eh?"

Bobby couldn't stop the truth, or at least a hint of it, "I will admit we do make a unique team."

She took a deep breath, knowing he would feel her torso's expansion simply because she could feel his as well. And neither moved to avoid it. "So, I guess it's good the team is back together," she concluded slyly, then began an upsweep of the sword. Bobby's hand followed suit -- strengthening and guiding.

When she was finally preparing to leave, a few hours later, it was with a slightly sore wrist.

His hand wrapped gently around her lower forearm ... with an ease both noticed, but neither would acknowledge outright. "You should rest this for a few days," he suggested as he gently massaged the tight muscles of her arm. "Perhaps a brief soak in some cool water tonight, before you go to bed."

Blake nodded, then slipped a request into a question. "So I guess the next lesson will have to wait a few days, is that what you're saying?"

He paused, studying her. Yes or no. ... Come or leave. ... Stay or go.

The reply he knew they both hoped for. Or the reply that logic kept insisting it should be.

Neither side would allow the other to win. A stand-off. The tenuous balance of the last few weeks was beginning to tip, and as if under the slightest weight of a feather. Or, the weight of a wish.

And he knew his answer. God help him, he knew his answer.

His gentle grip left her arm, causing her to worry for a moment that she had somehow presumed too much, when he proceeded to walk away. He stopped at his desk, he opened and reached inside the center drawer.

He walked back to stand if front of her. He raised a hand to her head to gently caress her hair for a moment. As his hand fell away, he brought it around in front of her. The little sleight of hand trick revealed a credit card sized piece of plastic.

She looked up at him questioningly. He was exceptionally good at being cryptic.

Bobby took a breath, letting it out slowly as the final decision was made.

"It's the key card, Blake," he replied. "For the garage. Carry it with you, and you can park there, safely. As long as you insist on continuing these visits, I won't have to worry about your safety as you come and go, Perhaps you're right. Perhaps I could use some company - your company."

She nodded wordlessly, as she picked up her things and walked to the door. As she opened the door she turned back to face him. "Good night, Bobby."

"Good night, Blake." He now leaned against the edge of the desk, arms crossed over his chest. He called out to her just as she walked out the door. "Blake?"

She turned back again, expectantly.

"Thank you for the gift. It's a… a great surprise." His smile was almost shy, and she thought, almost humbled.

Feeling confused again, she nevertheless felt a smile spread across her face, "Your very welcome. I'm glad you liked it. I thought it might have been a little over the top, but when I saw it, I immediately thought of you."

"That's me… a little over the top." He said as he grinned back at her. "No, I love it, I really do. I foresee hours of enjoyment as soon as I can recruit a willing subject."

"I'll keep my eye out…" With a quick wave, the door closed and she was gone.

As Bobby stared at the door, he whispered, _"Yes, Blake, thank you for your gift – you."_

* * *

More to come...


	3. Lesson Learned

The story continues...

* * *

Lesson Learned

"Go."

Bobby issued the pronouncement calmly and purposefully. His arm rose in time with his words, one hand, one finger pointing toward the apartment door.

"Bobby," Blake sighed, turning his name into a sad plea. "I wish you wouldn't be like this."

He cut her off, taking a step forward and planting himself firmly between her and the rest of his humble abode.

"Go, Blake. ... Now."

For ten long seconds, each one feeling like ten minutes of its own, she stared in wide-eyed disbelief. He was being utterly pig-headed, but she had no way to convince him otherwise. She could stay and continue arguing in circles, or she could do, as he demanded.

Alright. Fine. She would do it his way then.

Turning, she walked away with obvious frustration, barely managing not to stomp her feet as she strode out of the apartment without looking back. For the first time in a long time, she didn't even feel the lingering weight of Bobby's stare as she forcefully – just this side of slamming - closed the door.

Midnight - seven hours later - and Bobby sat in one of his reading chairs, a book on Forensic Psychology open in his hands. He was trying to 'read himself to sleep', while also struggling not to look at the clock.

Of course, he knew better than to expect her back that night. For one thing, it was very late and another, she was probably still angry with him. They rarely argued as they had done earlier that afternoon. He was probably almost as angry with himself as she was with him.

So he read. Or tried to. In every profile he read, he saw himself. All he wanted to do was plead his case with the author. Why not? He'd been arguing with everyone else – Blake, the late-night television news reporter who'd tried to give him the day's highlights, even himself.

Especially himself. Had he done the right thing?

Blake had come over that afternoon, talking about a birthday party taking place later that night for one of the other detectives in Major Case. Bobby and the man didn't particularly know each other – a not unusual arrangement for Bobby. This idle piece of news was mildly interesting, but didn't hold his interest for long.

The problem came when Blake mentioned that she'd actually been invited to the event – over a week ago - and that she had decided not to go, planning instead to spend her evening with him at his apartment.

Now, it wasn't the fact that she wished to spend the evening with him that had responsible for their disagreement. How could he be angry with her when he wished the same thing? And it wasn't the fact that, in the process, she would turn down a chance to mingle with the other detectives. No, what angered him was that she would keep the invitation and her refusal of that invitation quiet, until the last minute. The implication was clear to him, she didn't want him to feel left out or abandoned.

Changing her life to include him was one thing. He didn't always approve, but he knew those decisions were hers – decisions he benefited greatly from – even as all the choices in her life remained hers. But trying to keep it from him, as if she felt she needed to protect him from such truths – needed to shield him from the truth that she had other choices she could make - that angered him.

So, naturally, he had demanded that she go to the party. Now she had to go, as far as he was concerned. He'd shown her the door - quite literally - much to his later shame.

In her determination, and to her credit, she had used every argument in the book to counter him.

_"I've already told them I wouldn't be able to attend." _

_"No one is going to miss me, if I'm not there." _

But in the end, she had stopped arguing. As a look of pained helplessness crossed her face, she admitted defeat and she had finally walked away. Just as he demanded.

And now here he sat. Trying to forget.

It was about an hour later, when the faint clicking noise began. A sound he knew, a rhythm he recognized. Blake, her footsteps echoing in the hallway outside his apartment, was approaching in high heels.

Then the clicking stopped. The world around him simply became very quiet. He knew she was standing outside the door, waiting, composing herself.

"I know you're there," he stated flatly, after the silence continued for too long. He didn't turn to face the door so his back remained turned from the apartment's entrance, but he could almost feel her eyes on him. An interesting switch of perspective.

Her footfalls started up again, crossing the room, ending with her hand alighting gently on his shoulder. But still, he did not look up.

A residue of annoyance? _Maybe._ Regret over his behavior? _Probably. _Either way, he denied her his attention, prompting her into action.

Stepping around the arm of the chair, she gently nudged his book away and replaced it with herself. The Forensic Psychology tome, determinately removed from his hands to be toss carelessly on the adjacent end table, while Blake carefully slid climbed into his tensely rigid lap.

Such a small decision to make – one that was hers and hers alone. Soon, it had an effect that went well beyond her merely perching on his legs. She had worn a simple black dress, with a lightweight, deep red wrap. She wiggled in his lap as she removed the wrap, her movements causing her to teeter unbalanced before his arms came up around her to fence her in, to keep her from falling.

As she unwrapped the cover-up, she slowly extended her arm to release it. He watched as it pooled over his book. As she dropped the garment, to join his book on the table, so had his reserve dropped away from him. She was back in black, her wardrobe matching his. Black sought black, as she looped her arms around his neck, pulling herself into his embrace, as he finally relented. Even if his anger was directed mostly toward himself, he still could not deny the affection of this woman. His arms encircled her, pulling her close.

"I'm sorry," he murmured alongside her ear, as she rested her head to his shoulder. A simple apology, but so very heart-felt.

"I know," she soothed, her actions granting him even more forgiveness as she burrowed into his safety. Yes, she had risked the late-night streets and his anger to be here. But it was worth it, for this.

"And I'm sorry I left," she added. No matter how insistent he'd been, she chastised herself for not having found her strength to stand up against him. Sometimes, it was up to her. She knew that, it was simply part of being with this man. And she accepted it.

His head dipped to hers, one hand rising to caress the back of her neck. She'd pinned her hair up, the revelation of skin catching his helpless eyes. "You're beautiful tonight," he spoke softly. The words escaped before he'd even realized it. Some truths demanded to be heard.

Blake smiled her modest thanks, before pressing a kiss to his neck. "I came straight over after the party. Just try and send me away again, tonight."

To his surprise, Bobby actually found the beginnings of self-forgiveness within his next words. "I wouldn't even attempt it," he stated quite sincerely. "I ... I'm not ready to see you leave again."

She nodded her agreement, then relaxed in his arms ...a tired sigh released beneath his chin.

"You're tired," he hushed. "Did you have a good time at the party?"

"For the most part," she replied, fibbing all the way. Her calf swung lazily where it draped over the arm of the chair, and she let out another breath. "I danced most of the night, actually. I found a dance partner almost as good as you."

And there came the expected stiffening in Bobby' muscles. She knew the effect of her words would have, she had chosen them purposely. It was, however, the simple truth.

A ragged breath made shallow by adrenaline and muffled by regret was his only response. He had no one to blame but himself. He knew that. Once again he cursed his earlier behavior, especially since he could never fully take it back. What was done, was done.

An expression of concern flickered across his face – only for her safety – and perhaps as well as a veiled threat in case her dancing partner had exceeded the boundaries of propriety.

"He was an absolute gentleman," Blake cooed, with a smile Bobby could hear rather than see. Then she added, "George is a very lucky man."

George? George Hackett. He realized she had given him a piece of a puzzle for him to logic his way through. Hackett had been her partner in Homicide when she was at the 3-4. Gordon's _life_partner was Christopher Mullens, a Captain in the 1-3. Birthday boy had transferred into Major Case from the 3-4. It was probable that Mullens would have gone to the party with Hackett.

And just in case, Blake went on to make it crystal clear. "Gordon couldn't make it. Fortunately for me, Christopher is quite a talented dancer, especially with nice slow waltzes. I can't tell you how many times we circled the room."

Bobby chuckled, obviously relieved. "I had no idea you could be such a minx, Blake."

She, however, was no longer laughing or teasing. "You would do well to remember that then," she insisted firmly but gently. Her head tilted back so she could catch - demand - his attention. "You know, I've never let anyone make _my _decisions for me, and I'm not going to let you make them either." One feminine fingertip rubbed mournfully at his chin. "Don't ever do that to me again. Don't ever tell me to leave like that."

Bobby swallowed. Silently.

The last vestiges of anger were disappearing, as too were any worries over her little joke. Even the guilt was somehow subsiding, utterly overpowered by the look in her eyes. It was all that simple, and it was all right there.

"I won't," he replied. The shortest of answers, sealed with his word of honor. Then he gave her the truest welcome home, gathering her tightly as she climbed further into the curve of his neck.

Long minutes passed while silent forgiveness was both granted and accepted. A return to each other. A peace, during which time could finally sneak up on them.

"You're tired," he murmured. She was growing limp in his arms, her breathing settling into the most regular, most comforting cadence. A sound, almost like her own poetic beat, her own rhythm - that he'd spent more time in quiet wonder of, than he would ever admit.

Blake shifted, purposefully waking up and reining in her drifting mind. She wasn't done with the day yet. "In a minute. I want to dance first."

"Dance?" he laughed. "Now?"

"Yeah, now." She resisted the urge to point out the obvious irony. Traditionally, it was she who questioned his timing and urge to 'trip the light fantastic'. "I kept the last spot open on my dance card. Saved the best for last."

He laughed again. "You're so tired, you can't even stand up, let alone dance."

Blake's lips roamed from his cheek to hover near his ear, as she whispered, "Then you'll just have to help hold me up, won't you?" although thankfully he couldn't see that her eyes did remain closed in exhaustion.

His grip tightened, already preparing for just such a task ... and knowing from the beginning how much he would enjoy it.

"If I have to, I have to," he replied, taking her with him as he rose from the chair. "Whatever you need, whenever you need."

As they did little more than shuffle their weight from foot to foot, with that simple cadence and combination of easy movement and breath, they recaptured their balance.

* * *

More to come...


	4. Fortune

Fortune

"Did you enjoy it, Blake?" Bobby inquired, rubbing the shoulder of the girl currently reclined against his side. In all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure she'd even been awake for most of the last half of the movie. Not that he would complain though, not that he would complain at all. Not when she chose to spend what free time both of them had, with him, with such closeness.

"Mmhmm," she replied, surprisingly coherent, nodding where her head lay against his shoulder. "But now I'm worried I'll find you hiding behind some potted plant, talking to Shakespeare over there."

He glanced behind them, toward the small bust of Shakespeare acting as a book stop on the shelf above the desk. Considering they'd just watched 'Cyrano de Bergerac', he could imagine her point. He did have an admitted propensity for impromptu re-enactments. . As for the potted plant, there was none to be found anywhere.

"I would prefer to think I speak quite well enough for myself," he replied, feigning a little offense, but only a little. "Couple that with the absence of any potted plants in the apartment, I don't think you have much to worry about in this regard."

Drowsily, she offered, "Plants are good for you; the oxygen they give off will make it easier for you to absorb all that much more minutia about … everything." She patted his chest, before nuzzling closer.

His arm tightened, knowing he should rise and remove the disk from the player. It was late, and he should soon see her safely home building.

'Should', however, does not always equal 'could'.

Add into the mix that today had been one of those rare days, they had been able to spend the whole day together, and he was finding it especially difficult to watch their evening end.

"Thank you," she murmured, shifting her head so she could see him properly. "I liked this."

Her hand rose, fingers curving to lie gently on his chest. A sensation he could feel right through to his core. It could have been worse, he could have lost his nerves' ability to feel such a feather light, exquisite touch. Sweet torture indeed.

"I have something for you," he commented softly. "Before you return home."

Blake smiled. "As long as it's not another case history. I really don't want to play the head case game tonight." She'd made the grave mistake of asking him to recommend work-related reading material for her. He was enthusiastic to share not only his books and materials, but his process and knowledge. She discovered him to be a natural teacher.

Bobby chuckled. "Nothing nearly so cerebral tonight, I should say. Although, I am coming to appreciate your … your imaginative profiling skills."

And then, the time had come, he forced himself to rise from the couch, supporting and coaxing Blake until she too was vertical.

"You're tired, aren't you," he teased when he had to steady her for a second time. "Come, this won't take long."

'Giving' her something had become a tricky endeavor.

Something too personal, or too obvious in any way, might arouse suspicion among her friends – mostly the same detectives he saw everyday – it was a risk neither seemed ready to face. Something too impersonal, and she might choose to keep here, where it would only taunt him with its presence, reminding him of her when she couldn't be here.

Yes, the endeavor had become quite a minefield. Bobby was good at minefields though. He had maneuvered through them most of his life. Probably always would.

What he had selected tonight would be something to encompass all of those qualities, and in a way that if she chose to keep it here, the memory it generated would hopefully delight rather than taunt.

Taking her hand, he led her into the second bedroom of his apartment.

"That is for you," he remarked affectionately, pointing toward a table. Something most rectangular and edged sat atop it, covered with a swatch of blue velvet. "Go on," he coaxed. "It's yours to do with as you wish."

Stepping forward, she gingerly pulled off the velvet, peering with interest as the cloth slipped away, slowly revealing…

Well ... she wasn't sure what it was at first. Its overall shape was much like an antique cash register ... complete with a series of buttons on top. These buttons were electronic, however.

He moved up behind her, one arm slipping around her waist to steady himself - or at least that was how he would justify it – if called upon to do so. He leaned beside her, reaching past her to turn the machine on.

It sprang to life ... lights flashing. And what could only be described as a reel of ticker-tape paper, swiftly jumpstarted and jerked itself into position.

"Does it really work?" Blake asked playfully, with one eyebrow raised. She took in the exotic beauty of the dark haired mannequin face staring back at her, its wispy garments fluttering as its hands passed over a perfectly scaled down version of a crystal ball. It was a tabletop fortune-telling machine.

"I actually found this at the property clerk's auction a couple of weeks ago. It needed cleaned up some and some of the gold gilt needed to be redone. The restoration took a little longer than I thought …" He paused for a moment, suddenly quite nervous and anxious to point out her options. ... "You need not keep it, if it doesn't strike your fancy."

"At least you've given me a graceful out, if it doesn't 'strike my fancy'," She laughed. "which is more than I gave you when I brought over that magician's blade box. If we keep this theme up, we'll be able to open up a booth in Coney Island."

Proudly Bobby ran one hand along the machine's front edge. It had restored to excellent condition.

She was joking, of course, but Bobby took the opportunity to play right along. "Well then you must test it for them, wouldn't want any of the paying clientele to be taken advantage of." His hand pointing toward a lever with 'Tell Me No Lies' sprawled across it in whimsical script, he continued to goad her, "Don't you believe, Blake? Don't you believe? ... ... Please, do try it."

With another amused chuckle, she relented and grasped the handle. "All right."

Down came the immaculately clean lever, and chink, click, chink went the printing device, the fortune spitting out at her on a stream of paper.

That fortune appeared far too long, however - and the chinking and clicking continued for far too long - for it to be correct. That was Bobby's first hint that something was amiss. Ripping the ticker-tape off, Blake read it aloud.

"He loves you ... with all that he shall ... but that is rarely enough."

Her voice tilted into a question at the end as she realized how bad that actually sounded. Especially given where she was standing, and who she was standing so close to. "Well that's not the most encouraging thing I've ever heard," she stated, a bit taken aback.

Bobby's pensive "_Hmmmmmm_" hummed across the back of her head. "Yes indeed. That certainly wasn't supposed to happen." Glancing at her, "See, it's a good thing we tested it first, before opening for business."

Reaching around her again, he set and reset a few buttons on the side of the obstinate little machine - then paused, clearly frustrated - then gave it a good sharp thwack on its metal frame.

"Beating it up isn't going to help," she chided.

"It came from a raid at a bar. Isn't that the way most drunks would attempt to remedy the situation? There, try ... try again."

"But maybe that's why it didn't work right." Blake took a stubborn breath, cast him a humorously wary look, then pulled the lever a second time.

Chink, click, chink ... ... and she read the result.

"The best of intentions are rarely enough ..."

Two large hands landed at her waist, no longer needing to discipline the machine. It was working, he stepped a little closer behind her, his smile hidden from her amused gaze. "Try again."

This time, her glance back at him was a bit more suspicious, but she did as he suggested. More clinking. More clicking. And she read…

"Yet he shall strive with all that he is ..."

His hands slid happily around her midriff. A liberty taken with the confidence of success. "Again," he purred.

Another pull of the lever, to produce -- --

"Because ..."

This time, she glanced at him with the most affectionate shyness, unsurprised to find that 'face' of his mirroring the sentiment back so perfectly. And this time, she needed no prompting.

One last pull. A chink and a click. -- --

"He loves you ..."

Silence for a moment, after her whisper of the words ended. He leaned closer along the side of her head, hoping that everything was indeed all right ... assured of it, when her fingers carefully gathered together the precious little strips of paper, squeezing them between her palms. A further moment, while she fought back the tears.

"This machine, isn't going anywhere," her hushed voice quite resolutely declared, staring at the little machine she now absolutely adored. "It stays here. But _these_," she smoothed the ends of the paper strips, peaking out from between her hands, "These come with me. These are mine."

Bobby's head propped to hers, breathing a sigh of both joy and relief. "Yes," he agreed simply. "They are."

"Thank you," she whispered, her eyes still trying to escape that same lever she had been so reluctant to pull.

"Do you believe now, Blake?" he asked, breathing the words into her hair.

A few more blinks, as she tried unsuccessfully to slow the welling tears. "Yeah," she whispered, then carefully jarred his reluctant arms loose, just enough to turn for a proper embrace. "Yeah. I think I really do."


	5. Hands

Hands

What a nice, firm dance frame Bobby had, Blake thought as she and her beau swayed to the music. An old jukebox, another song for them to now claim as their own, and two large hands gently guiding their combined 'frame'.

His hand did not curve around her waist solely to steer her, their steps had taken them barely three yards from their initial starting point. And then when one of his fingers - just one, had inched its way between hers, that wasn't entirely formal technique, now was it?

Unfortunately, Blake had an early morning. There was always time for one last dance though, and Bobby invited his lady to choose the tune. Of course, she had no idea what she was picking, and ended up with a jazzy piece that had more life to it than it had words.

That didn't hinder them though. On the contrary, he was soon stepping quite repeatedly into her personal space - blaming it on the tempo, of course. Then her hand dared just a little further around his neck - only so she could keep up, mind you. Their frame was beginning to look rather collapsible.

Bobby's grin matched hers, and he found himself laughing softly along with her. She apparently found colliding feet to be terribly amusing, while it was her laughter that he found tantalizing. He really shouldn't have been too surprised then, when she leaned further into him, gazed up at him with the coyest expression, and said, "Dip me!"

"Dip you?" he repeated, though the tone of his voice hint at amusement and interest.

"Yeah." She drew still closer, until his hand made the most natural shift from her waist to her back. "I think I've been dipped maybe twice in my life. Once by my father, and once by a dance instructor. The instructor was trying too hard, to be too impressive; and my dad is well, 'my dad'." Her lips fluttered dangerously close to his chin, as though they may alight any moment. Instead, they simply whispered the quiet request. "I want you to dip me."

An image formed in his head, of this woman, reclining safely within his arms. And maybe, just maybe granting that kiss with which she currently teased him.

Nearing the end of the piece, the music swelled behind them, as did Bobby's chest. The adrenaline flowing, his affection growing for the first person to ever make such a delightful request of him. Hoping he didn't appear too eager, his hand spanned across her back, balancing shifting and then the brief tilting back of his dance partner.

Blake's smile rose instantly, her head leaning back as she giggled. It was very close to what she wanted, but ... "Come on, lower," she laughed, trying to shift her weight to her advantage. Not that she had a prayer, his arm was like a band of steel holding her in place. ... ...

And he really did consider doing exactly as she asked. It would have been a sight to behold, he knew that too. This woman he loved, seeing her draped low over his arm would have been a sight he might never have forgotten. But he couldn't do it.

"Lower," she insisted. "I'm not scared ... you know I trust you."

He paused. He froze

She'd never said those words to him before. That she trusted him.

He had sensed it clearly at times, but now she had given it power, by voicing the conviction aloud. Playfully and in passing, to be sure. Uttered while trying to get her own way. But still, she'd said it. With an ease only the truth could inspire.

It should fill him with joy. It should speak to their blossoming relationship. It should assure him that her other words of affection and constancy were equally true.

He righted her, efficiently and quickly, using the music's ending notes as his excuse.

"Our next dance, perhaps," he suggested, feigning ease and quietude as best he could. He moved away from her ... casually, although his heart was still thumping over that vivid image behind his eyes. "When we have opportunity again. I know you need to get home soon."

What could Blake say? She was left dumbfounded, and could only watch as he put more distance between them.

Usually at this point, in what little routine they'd already established, he would be asking about her schedule for the next few days. Trying to find a convenient time for them to see each other again - even deciding what they might do. He would embrace her, emphasizing that she should be careful. And she warn him of the same -- with even more adamancy, knowing there was always the chance he'd be off chasing on a new case. A few quiet moments of closeness before she left, or before they set out together and he would see here home.

She really did need to be going soon, and he knew it. So why was he now standing at an end table, fiddling with the tray of tea she'd been drinking?

"What's wrong, Bobby?" she asked in confusion. She moved to the side -- not bold enough to approach directly, but hoping to at least re-insert herself into his field of vision. And when he didn't look at her she knew it was something deeper than a 'dip'.

"Did I say something wrong?" she asked, as he clinked the tea cup and saucer in a most unnecessary way. Distraction - nothing else. She reviewed the previous minutes in growing concern, trying to recall her last words. "Because I said I wasn't scared? That I trust you not to drop me?"

Well, she was close. The crux remained, and it stung him anew.

"You should not trust so easily," he replied, watching the fingers before him delicately pinch the handle of a porcelain cup. "Or so quickly," he amended. "There are days I wonder how I can protect you, when you are so open as is your willingness to trust."

"WHAT?" was her eventual reply. "What are you talking about? What do you mean 'trust so easily'? I said I trust you. Not just anyone. You. ... What on earth is wrong with that?"

His head just shook for a moment, a sad moment, that he wished he could take back, or at least undo. He couldn't even find words for the thoughts that raced through his head. How do you apologize for something that you are not fully sorry? How do you regret a thought, but not the actual deed? In the end, to a man, who'd spent most of his life in solitude, the answer was distance. The answer to so many things and some many times, was distance.

"But, to prevent the tyrant's violence," he finally spoke, using the master's words rather than his own. "For trust not him that hath once broken faith."

A new puzzle and she immediately went to work on the solution. "Broken faith? When did you break faith?"

He finally turned quickly, and with a new determination. She still was not seeing, and having already broached the topic, even against his better judgment, he suddenly, simply, needed it done. For the thoughts in his head, for that voice whispering that she never would, and never should, trust him again.

He stepped away. Further into the room, now abandoning the tea tray as well. Trying to get away from her, maybe? He wasn't even certain himself. ... ... Why had he pushed this so far? ... And when would that damn voice in his head be silent?

Equally surprised - by both the conversation, and the fact that he was now yards away from her and receding fast – Blake's words took on a new urgency. "Where did this come from? You know I trust you. Forget about some stupid dance move - you could dangle me off the edge of a roof and I'd still trust you. I love you.

And that, finally returned his gaze to hers. The full weight, and she basked in a moment of relief. It never ceased to amaze her how much she could miss this man, even on those occasions when all she really lacked was the view of his eyes.

"Do you?" he asked, softly and solemnly. "Are you certain of that?"

She nodded. Did he really need that assertion from her? Did he really need to hear this in her own words? Again? When he had yet to... Alright. Fine. He would have it. ... Whatever he needed.

He was frozen again. But at least focused on her now, instead of his hands.

It was anger -- maybe even fury -- that he had always expected to come flooding out of her, one day when she finally saw fit to speak her mind. Instead, here was a smooth, serene show of strength. Empathy even. ... An understanding that could never be claimed by the self-righteous, or those who considered themselves outside the game.

Was this her admission, that right and wrong was not always as black and white as some chose to believe? That even his darkest of actions, may not have been the blackest? Was this her confession, on the most volatile experience they'd ever shared?

She stepped closer, her fingers reaching tentatively towards his cheek to caress delicately the flesh and blood of him, that part of him that couldn't be hidden beneath the mask. She knew the man beneath. She knew what had made him. And what had broken him.

"I've had a lot of time to think about things, too" she spoke. "To think about everything from your mom to Brady, from Frank and Donny, and from Alex to Declan. All of it." She emphasized. "I know you had no other way to show us the truth of what had happened and what could happen. I know 'we' would never have simply 'believed' you otherwise. I do trust you. It's there, and it's real. I just hope you can trust me. Because I love you too."

Her final words became a plea, a helpless statement of fact, and she closed the final distance. Then still more promised "I love you's", her arms looping around his neck as she rose onto tiptoe, pulling herself into his embrace. How could she do anything else?

The breath left his body in one deep exhalation. Relief. Remorse. Exhaustion. Even a little pride, over the strength in this woman before him. "I do love you, Blake," was the natural end to that breath, his head pressing adamantly to hers. "And I have never trusted any one, as I trust you. It grows with each passing day."

"Oh Bobby," she hushed in response, rising to hold him cheek pressed to cheek, more intimately than a kiss.

Then she released him, but only to take his hand. His grip had always been gentle, cautious, as if fearful of harming her. And she understood that too. ... ... Yeah, she knew what he sometimes saw in those overtly strong hands of his.

"And these," she said, holding five fingers between her own. "I trust these too."

A kiss for the tip of his pointer finger. Then another for the soft curve between his knuckles. His hand moved of its own accord, barely caressing her chin while he breathlessly watched the scene.

"These hands mean safety to me, too." she continued. Her face turned in to the palm, where another kiss was reverently laid. "Don't ever think otherwise. Don't ever try to keep them away."

It was an amazing thing to witness, so much affection poured out across well-used, life-worn hands. Hands that had both received, and dealt out, far more violence than tenderness. Hands that were well-practiced in justice, but woefully unaccustomed to the receipt of kindness.

And she loved them. How clear that was.

His second hand rose to her back, spanning the distance between her shoulder blades holding her with a new permission, a new confidence. He leaned closer, drawn to those tiny kisses that continued across his black-clad palm.

"I do love you," he whispered, barely audible. But the one who needed to hear it, did; and her lips migrated onto his waiting, frozen, perhaps even hopeful smile. The sweetest kiss, intimately shared and jealously private, guarded safely and securely, behind a most trustworthy hand.

By the time it ended, his embrace was returning to its rightful strength. Even better than before, drawing her urgently into his arms.

And now came new images - better images - to battle back the old. As she moulded herself into the curve of his body, he could see his hands on her back. Splaying, gripping, cradling. Loving. Certainly not hurting, as she moved beneath them. These hands only completed what she herself had started ... bringing her closer.

An embrace, for which both had waited months, years, perhaps lives. An embrace full of optimism and acceptance, one beyond mere forgiveness. Neither anxious for to end.

Well past the time Blake had hoped to be back at her apartment.

Bobby's voice came low beside her ear - wistful, yet melancholy. "Come, gentle night. Come, loving, black-brow'd night." Soon, he would be escorting her home. Soon, this same night would part them.

His grip began to weaken at the inevitable, and his chin pressed one last time to her head. They should be going and he knew it. Hands that had finally found their true strength, would have to release her for now.

Not yet though, as Blake worked for quite the opposite.

She held him still as tightly; still as relentlessly, hands clinging around his neck. "We have another minute," she whispered. "There has to be another minute. One last dance, Bobby? Just one last dip?"

The faintest chuckle came easily. So much emotion swirling around them, slowly dispersing in a moment of playful surprise. His hands returned, answering her silently and with much less hesitancy, encircling her once more.

These touches were to be savored. Every moment, savored, as she settled quite happily back into his embrace.

Only then did Blake's head retreat, just far enough to catch his eyes. One last wordless exchange. One last nod of both request and permission, given by the lady. One last kiss to be indulged in ... before Blake's body was slowly, gently tilted, by the absolute safest of arms.

For all of his expertise, that dance instructor had been wrong. Something Blake had always suspected, and was now proving to herself quite well, with the assistance of her rapidly agreeing Bobby.

A proper dip must be done properly. Not necessarily with music - there was none. Not with a perfectly precise 'dance frame' - this was far, far more secure. But rather, with genuine trust - trust shared best, and most naturally, between those who genuinely loved.

More to come...

* * *

A/N The quote… attributed to the master, is from William Shakespeare's, King Henry the Sixth

"But, to prevent the tyrant's violence, -

For trust not him that hath once broken faith."

The next line is, "I'll hence forthwith unto the sanctuary…" I like to think that Blake will be Bobby's sanctuary.


	6. Masked Man

The Story Continues....

Masked Man

_Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them. -- Edgar Allan Poe_

Two AM, and Bobby lay awake in his bed room, stretched out, hand beneath his head, staring pensively at the ceiling. Listening to the silence. Listening to the stillness. Listening for one thing to interrupt the silence and the stillness; listening for the soft footfalls padding down the hallway signaling Blake's return.

It was Blake, and he was no longer startled at these unexpected late night visits. She had let herself into his apartment minutes ago, confessing quietly, that she couldn't sleep. He knew she was more worried about him not sleeping than any supposed problem she might be having. He knew that and she knew that he knew. Both determined to let that be just another of the things they didn't talk about - yet. He could remember the first nervous, awkward, heart-pounding encounters? Her approach was always so tentative, almost shy, despite the fact that it was entirely her own decision to embark on this particular journey.

It was not a shyness born by fear of discovery. She would never come to him if she feared him. She harbored no fear of him. Not in her eyes; not in her words; not in her behavior; not even in her touch, and he had looked. Most assuredly, he had searched for any signs. He watched for them with an intense focus only sheer paranoia could muster. There was nothing of that emotion anywhere within her. An unspoken compliment that filled him with what he could only describe as undeserved pride.

Nor was it the shyness of shame. It was no secret at 1PP that they were a couple. It wasn't even the elephant in the room, although it had started out that way. The relationship became public knowledge several months ago. Everything revolved entirely of her own volition; she was in control of it all. Every time she walked through his doorway, she would grace the dim light with a small, victorious smile. Showing him that she too felt a sense of pride; having proven her spirit yet again in seeking him out.

No, this was a shyness born of love. A fact that was always responsible for him inhaling deeply whenever his thoughts turned in that direction. She loved him. She had said it often enough. She had often shown it to be true. Whenever she would come to him like this, he knew her shyness came from the timid hope that he really did believe her.

And he did. God help him, he did.

"You're awake," she whispered, smiling as she leaned against the side of his doorway. She couldn't tell that by simply looking at him, as his eyes remained closed, obviously she knew his breathing. A familiarity they noted with silent affection.

"Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them," he replied, intoning an expressive moan into the last pair of words. Not that he had to search his memory for an appropriate quote. He'd offered the same explanation many times before. They were developing a bit of a script, it seemed. Buried within the good mood that his voice conveyed, lay his hidden approval that she was welcome. She entered, quietly crossing the floor.

A soft cotton t-shirt and shorts were her pajamas, a set she kept here for the nights she decided to spend at his apartment. As expected, her arms crossed over her midriff, offering meager protection against the winter chill that never seemed to won over by the heating system in his apartment.

So he knew what to expect at her approach, lying still as she climbed past him into the niche between his body and the far side of the bed. Once she'd settled down against his side, he reached above his head, and brought his arm gingerly around her, and he tried not to shiver when she wiggled closer in anticipation, wrapping her arm across his waist and laying her cheek on his shoulder. Could he release his breath now?

"Do you genuinely believe this helps you sleep?" he asked incredulously, his fingertips gently sliding up and down her arm. "Slinking around in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness ..."

Blake smiled to herself. "No, but then I wasn't the one lying here awake at two o'clock in the morning. Who knows, maybe it's _your_ sleep that will be helped."

Now it was Bobby's turn to smile, secretly in the dark. He had yet to come up with a retort to her smug assertion, despite his having heard it several times now.

"Besides," she continued. "There's something I need to tell you. I ... I thought it would be easier here, now, in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness... "

She heard his soft chuckle as his words were turned back on him. And felt his body tense as he realized what she had just said.

This was not part of the script or scene that usually played out. He took a deep breath as she began.

"I was going to wait until Friday, after I knew for certain there was no way around it. I don't think there will be, and I don't like keeping it secret or... or springing it on you at the last minute."

He looked down across her face, genuine concern rising. "Tell me, Blake."

"It's looking like that on Monday, I'm off to D.C. for at least three weeks, for the Homeland Security liaison team training."

Bobby took another deep breath, lifting Blake right along with him, and then let it out slowly. He stared at the ceiling as he asked, "When did you find out that you're going to be part of the liaison team?"

"Um… yesterday. I needed to figure out how I felt about it, before I told you. But, I think it has the potential to be an effective program and I think… I hope that I can help keep the focus on what's really important and avoid the issues of territoriality and who gets credit between the departments."

A silent pause, while Bobby's inevitably supportive reply formed. "Well then you have to go, just know that I'll miss you."

"I don't want to go," she admitted quietly. "I know that it's only three weeks, but I don't want to go, I don't want to leave."

Bobby's hand landed on her arm, rubbing gently where it lay across his abdomen. Indeed, he would miss her. Possibly more than she even suspected. "I know," he replied. "But if that's the extent of your dilemma, if that's what's keeping you awake at night, it could be much worse. So much worse."

Blake nodded on his shoulder. He'd remained quite relaxed, so she would make one further request. Tightening her arm, silently bracing him for what he was about to hear, she murmured, "Will you tell me why you're awake at two o'clock in the morning, so many nights?"

She actually felt and heard his heart rate shoot up, and she simply waited. There were very few avenues of escape for him at the moment.

"Perceptions are more than visual," he finally said. "Blake, the thoughts, the memories that keep me awake would change your view of me and I … I'm not ready for that."

Blake's eyes closed, her muscles easing into defeat. She was growing so weary of this standoff. So weary of being torn between her feelings of sympathy for what he must have endured; what he must still endure now, and the simple desire to see - to know - the man she loved.

"Why do you keep insisting that I couldn't handle it?" she challenged with a hushed, thinly veiled anger. "That I couldn't accept what I find?"

"It is _I_ who could not accept what _I_ would find, if I gave voice to them," he corrected her quickly, even tersely. "To leave them in darkness confines them. And keeps you safe and free."

He caught himself before his words became harsher, then reflexively pulled her tighter, reminding himself that she was not one of those who had walked away, or let him down. What she was, instead, was the one who had saved him probably more times than she realized; and who, he genuinely believed, loved him.

"Blake," he sighed mournfully. "Once you have seen the extent of it, even if only for a moment, I ... I am the one who will continue to be tortured by it. Every time you look at me, I will see its reflection. And I don't have your strength."

His answer was truthful, and he waited silently for her rebuttal. She would try again, he knew that, and he secretly welcomed it. Her determination was building up to that very same strength he needed. She would eventually break through. It was more a question of 'when' than 'if', and part of him joyously cheered her on. How she would accomplish her mission sparked his curiosity.

She didn't argue with him now. She didn't attempt to draw him out further, at least not blatantly. At first, there was no reaction. Then he felt a low frequency shudder vibrating out from her torso and into his own. He recognized it as the effect of her breathing as she exhaled under the stress of trying not to weep.

That was where her words ended, reduced to a muffled sob. The strong hands that she thought would comfort her, didn't. He made no movement of consolation or comfort, freezing and stiffening beneath her. Even his attention appeared denied to her, his gaze fixed on the ceiling above.

For what felt like long minutes, they remained exactly that way, although in truth it was mere seconds. Then her worst fear realized, retreat, always his retreat. His arms left her with little fanfare, and he removed himself brusquely from beneath her weight.

"Bobby!" she wept, struggling to sit up. He was fast, and was already striding across the room. "Bobby, please come back. I'm sorry. Please!"

He had reached the doorway, prepared to leave her for the night. Or, so she thought. Instead, he closed the door, instantly sinking the room into a darkness so complete, she felt as if a mask had been placed over her eyes.

"Bobby?" she sobbed again, knowing he was on this side of the door, but unable to see even an inch in front of her. "Bobby?"

"Shhhh," he hushed. "Don't be afraid. Please, Blake."

Then the sensation of fingers, landing gently on her arms, sliding smoothly down to catch her hands. A warm and loving touch, but unusually firm at the same time.

The shift of the mattress as he sat down beside her. The bump of her leg with his own as he drew closer.

And then, while his hands gingerly kept her own in check, came the most tentative press of warm, full lips to her own. Brief, less she feel more than he was prepared to reveal, but lingering just long enough to prove his deep compulsion to continue.

"I do love you, Blake," the words whispered across her cheek. "Please don't cry. You're the one who will get us there. When the time is right."

Finally, an affectionate squeeze of her hands as he indulged in one more soft brush of her lips. It was a continued, careful risk that he simply could not resist, even as it revealed more than he intended.

It left her trembling in shock, swallowing the last of her tears as his tears mingled with hers. When his hands suddenly disappeared from her own. He was gone again, back into the dark depths of the room.

Even when he re-opened the door, it took her eyes a moment to adjust, to the newer shade of lighter darkness as he returned to the bed. Once again, his mask in place, smiled at her as he coaxed her to lie back down.

She complied, retrieving the blanket and wrapping it around them both as she welcomed him back to his bed, whispering her own endearments as she found herself pulled into his arms.

This was different. It had been such an uncomplicated gesture, so simple and so subtle, but one that irreversibly changed everything. They both knew and they both delighted in it even more as he settled down to face her, adjusting himself so that her forehead could rest gently against the mask he wore, even with her.

* * *

More to come....


	7. Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

The story continues… a hint at some of Blake's family history....

* * *

Letting Sleeping Dogs Lie

As she waited for sleep to take her away, her thoughts meandered back to an earlier time. A time long, long ago, in a life far, far away, Blake Jamison had a brother. In that same life she had also had a mother. And she had a father. But her immediate thoughts and memories revolved around her brother. All of whom were in the back of her mind always, but brought back into sharp focus by the recent, sudden and tragic death of Bobby's own brother, Frank just at the one year anniversary of their mother's death. She knew that by the facts, but not by any discussion by or with Bobby about it. Neither she nor Bobby talked much about their family. This was just another similarity in their nature that others didn't understand.

But she knew that Bobby's relationship with his brother had at best been problematic from the time they were teenagers. Blake wasn't sure if she considered herself lucky that she hadn't had as much time with her own brother. There had been a time when she looked up to her brother in awe when they were kids. He had been a brother she loved, and he was now a brother she missed terribly at times, as she did her parents. But, he was also a brother that she - like most little girls - often considered to be utterly diabolical.

Slowly her breathing began to deepen, falling into sync with the sleeping figure next to her. Oh, taunt her, her brother did. In the way, that only sibling rivalry can inspire. Getting her into trouble purely for the fun of it; hiding her things until she thought she was losing her mind; and the full assortment of typical, juvenile practical jokes. As they grew older the jokes became less juvenile. By the time she was in her early teens, his 'acting out', his jokes became cruel and were the cause of an estrangement with her and with their parents that lasted until his death. That still had incredible power over her. Until she met Bobby, she had thought that exquisite torture was uniquely hers. It didn't make her happy to know that others in the world shared that particular agony.

So it should have come as little surprise that when hours later as her guard was down – in sleep – that her unconscious would star her brother in her dreams, that as he teased her in sleep that his name would come to her and cross her lips.

"Evan, stop it!" she mumbled still half asleep, waking enough to realize her discomfort.

Waking further, she tried to lift her arm from where it hung out over the edge of the bed, almost convinced she'd find it wrapped in a cold wet towel – in her dream, her brother was wrapping her in cold, wet 'bandages' to turn her into a mummy. Instead, she found that it wouldn't even move.

Her eyes blinked open, the dream ebbing away as the reality of Bobby's bedroom filtered in. In seconds, she finally realized the actual innocence of her predicament. Her arm was immovable, simply because it was asleep, stretched out into the air beyond the mattress' edge. The sometime working heating system was living up to its reputation. She was only cold because the weather had taken an unseasonable dip into low temperatures and the heat in Bobby's building was not prepared for that contingency.

With determination, she made her hand into a fist, slowly waking the muscles as they protested with pins and needles tingling fiercely enough to be responsible for a soft gasp to escape her lips. Each new flex of fingers and rolling of her wrist eased the burning sting coursing through her arm as the blood flow returned.

While her hand pumped open and closed, and she struggled to bend her arm at the elbow, she looked down for the blanket, anxious to get herself – and especially her arm - back beneath it. When she finally found the blanket, she had to ask herself just what kind of dream she had been having. Only a small portion of the blanket lay wrapped around the bottom corner on her side of the bed, most of it lay pooled in oozed mass of flannel on the floor. Her own fault, apparently. Too bad - usually she tried to blame Bobby for the torn up state of the bedding in the morning.

Smiling at the thought of his usual defensive protests, that it was her restlessness and not his own, she turned her head to find the man in question curled across her. No doubt - she thought to herself in amusement - trying to hold her restrained in this position, until he could point out her own ill-inspired disposal of that blanket. It was just the type of game he would enjoy teasing her with. The wicked glee with which he would point out the true culprit - casting all prior indictments into doubt – would follow her forever.

He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Any minute though, he might open his eyes to watch her intensely. It did make her wonder if his position was just very good subconscious planning for when he awoke next time, or a remnant from the last time he'd drifted off.

And soon she understood why her arm felt so especially cold. It was because the rest of her body had been kept so especially warm, despite the blanket's absence.

One of his long legs had angled up to hook across hers. Only inches higher, his elbow rested at her navel, his arm lying in a 'V' across her midriff to cover a significant portion of her torso.

And his hand - as it had been since making love hours earlier - was form-fit gently atop one breast, his shoulder covering the other.

Blake took a deep breath, trying to let it out slowly so he would neither awaken nor stir. She wanted to see this. She had to see this as she her thoughts drifted to possible scenarios for the situation she found herself in.

It was almost as if he was trying to cover her against the chilled air. If he couldn't catch the blanket as it slipped to the floor, he would use himself instead, silently cloaking her in his own warmth.

Had his hand been the first to sense it? Had he reached for her in the middle of the night, only to find cold skin at his fingertips? Had he stretched his arm out blindly for the blanket, or had he even bypassed such a solution altogether, instinctually offering himself as protection against the cold?

Had she reached that far into his subconscious, and did such moments - as those she now fancifully imagined - really play out in the middle of the night? The possibilities made her heart swell, warming her from within just as he warmed her from without.

Not wanting to break the spell, she tried to find a position to warm her errant limb without shifting or disturbing Bobby. There were few alternatives though, and at last she laid it carefully alongside his own. It was then that she received her answer; and a more honest answer than she'd ever suspected.

In the process, the cold skin of her upper arm brushed gently against the fingers that draped around the outside of her breast. And when those fingers felt the chilled flesh, they rose, shifting slightly to bring her arm under their warming safety as well.

She wrapped her hand around his elbow – in truth, couldn't help it - a reaction just as natural as his own. Unfortunately, it was enough to wake him. The cadence of his breathing changed, and she believed she could actually feel the moment that his eyes opened.

For a second or two, their gaze met, until finally his entire grip tightened affectionately. "Why are you smiling?" he inquired in a low voice - barely awake, but intrigued by the enigmatic curve on her lips.

Part of her considered telling him. Another part considered winding herself properly into his embrace and letting him perform the role of 'blanket' even more fully. But in the end, she decided not to ruin such a precious secret with revelation.

Her arm rose, her finger pointing playfully down toward the bottom of the bed.

Perplexed, he scanned across them both, trying to figure out what she meant. As soon as he saw the dark red blanket, piled just beyond her side of the bed, he offered exactly the tease she expected. "Why you have to play such physical games in the middle of the night, I'll never know."

How irresistible it always was, to indulge in those humorous back-and-forths with him. Not this time though, not this time.

If it had started as her 'game', or even merely an overly-energetic dream, it certainly had not ended as such. Not with him. The absence of that simple wool blanket had given her an insight that she'd never imagined possible. In sleep, all barriers receded allowing their bond to deepen, to move beyond the line of defense each had staked out.

"Maybe, it's merely the residual effect of…" she finally answered in the faintest whisper. Then she stretched closer, touching her lips to his forehead. She had convinced herself that her 'scenario' was the proper explanation and she felt her pulse quicken.

It left him wondering, and just a little bewitched. "Of?"

"Of … of a stressful day." Already she was moving away though, her line of defense rebounding as she became more awake. A tale not ready to be told. Deflecting the moment, she made a grab for the corner of the thick fabric covering. His arms opened as she went, his hands following her movement, sliding slow paths along her back. And so he waited for her return, finally helping her reel the blanket up around them again.

She assumed he still didn't realize what had so fully captivated her thoughts, moments earlier when he'd awoken. Nor did she think he ever considered such things with his waking mind. Her assumption was immediately cast into doubt, however, with the words he spoke as she snuggled back into his embrace.

Welcoming her back into his arms as she finished arranging the bedding, he pulled her close to playfully murmur, "Would you really prefer a wool blanket to me?"

Her eyes went to his and met with the same unspoken amusement, followed by mutual unspoken affection. It was such an easy choice, such an obvious choice.

Abandoning their last minute adjustments, her hands moved instead to search him out - slipping herself blissfully into the warmest embrace - wrapping herself up in his willing and eager limbs.

"No, have no fear of that." She offered in hushed tones, as she curled against him. Relaxing into his embrace until his waking mind could enfold her every bit as thoroughly as his sleeping mind had done. A soft kiss to the underside of his jaw and she neither felt nor remembered the cold, or even the blanket itself.

"Never," she whispered. ... ... "Never. Never fear that." As she drifted off to sleep, she felt a small measure of triumph. So much between them unspoken and untested, so much unquestioned and simply understood.

* * *

More to come….


	8. In Dreams

The story continues.... The large sections of italics describe their dreams.

* * *

In Dreams

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman  
Tiptoes to my room every night  
Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper  
"Go to sleep. Everything is all right."

_2:34am_.

Bobby glanced at the clock as he quietly returned to Blake's bedroom. How long had he been gone? Forty minutes maybe? He'd gone out to the living room, searching for something to tire his brain.

He'd been having one of _those_ nights, when his mind simply would not settle no matter how well his body was relaxed. It was one of those nights, when his past would continue to haunt his memory until the alarm rang in the morning.

And every once in a rare while, his brain would rebel against that void, despite his well-learned practice at focusing on the present and future. It was on nights like this that his subconscious would spin the oddest of memories; trying to find something that would fit. He wasn't even sure anymore which if any were the truth? What were his real, actual memories?

He was no longer certain. The stories woven into his dreams were so varied and disjointed that he didn't trust a single memory, not a one could be presumed authentic – the implication then, that probably none of them were. But his imagination was certainly giving it the old college try, coming up with at least two different theories this night alone. Two dreams that made no sense, and only left him in the most fitful state.

In the past, the solution had been to drain his mind of energy by immersing himself in mental calisthenics. Reading, writing, and more reading ... sometimes right through the next night, until he would fall into such an exhausted sleep that his brain was far too busy recovering, to waste its time dreaming up possible alternatives.

But now, his nights - or at least the best of his nights - were spent with Blake.

Did he really want to waste these hours buried in a book, when the invitation to Blake Jamison's bed beckoned to him? No, of course not. And after reviewing ten Shakespearean sonnets that he already knew by heart, he had returned to her room.

Carefully, he slipped back into the bed, taking note of the wonderful picture she made. Curled into the fetal position and facing away from him, she slept peacefully, her upper body rising and falling with deep, slow breaths. She looked so serene, so content.

Should he be offended that she had rolled away during his absence? Not necessarily. He knew how much she enjoyed those times when he spooned along her back. It was possible - and he hoped it to be true - that she believed him curled around her still. A sincere wish he held close to his heart, as he gingerly slid in between the sheets.

He did risk a brief inspection of her face, leaning just barely over her until he could see her eyes. Yes, she was sound asleep, her hands folded together and tucked beneath her chin. It took every bit of willpower to not do exactly what he'd been imagining ... ... to not wrap himself around her, cocoon her into his embrace, and try to find his comfort within her.

The problem was that he couldn't be certain how long he would stay, until the dreams returned and he'd be up again - wandering around and trying to wrestle his brain into submission. He would only end up disturbing her, and she deserved better than someone who kept disappearing from the bed every hour.

So he stretched out on his back, politely and chastely remaining on his own side of the bed. His arm reached over though, his hand landing so that his knuckles stroked softly into the small of her back. Silent assurance - that might penetrate right into her dreams, if he was lucky - that her love had returned to her side.

* * *

I close my eyes,  
Then I drift away  
Into the magic night.  
I softly say  
A silent prayer  
Like dreamers do.  
Then I fall asleep to dream  
My dreams of you.

_"Blake! Wait for me! Aunt Ellen said you have to wait for me!" _

_Evan came bolting out of the house. Blake almost made it to the edge of the woods when she heard her brother's call, and she laughed, searching in excitement for a tree she might duck behind. The strands of her long hair whipped in the increasing breeze. _

She'd felt the flit of fingers at her back, the briefest of touches along her spine. No need to wake up though, her subconscious recognized the touch. Her new, hard-won love, reminding her of his presence in the middle of the night.

Instinctively, Blake rolled over, turning in the bed, wiggling herself around and reaching for an arm. She looped her hands around it, pulling the branch of his limb close against herself.

A reassuring moment of comfort, just on the boundary of waking, before slipping back over the barrier into sleep.

* * *

But just before the dawn  
I awake and find you gone.  
I can't help it, I can't help it, if I cry.  
I remember that you said goodbye.

_Bobby picked up his plane tickets, checking them for the sixth time. Running his hand nervously through his hair, he exhaled loudly, wondering if he was really making the best decision. The urge to leave - to get out now - was overwhelming. Nothing more than self-preservation, although part of him loathed the coward it was making him feel like._

_There was still plenty here; plenty that he would leave behind, never to see again or if he did, never in the same way. He envisioned all sorts of memories filtering through and possibly out of his mind with each passing day. Hopefully, the bad memories would fade, leaving him with only pleasant ones. His biggest fear – that there were no pleasant memories._

_He was going to lose touch with a large part of his life, of himself. He felt it was necessary if he wanted to escape the nightmare that he could see unfolding around him. Nothing he could do would save his mother. Frank didn't want to be saved. Who would save him? He had to do something for himself, before it was too late. The Army would be his salvation. Order would take the place of chaos. Structure would halt the spiraling feeling of loss of control. He would gain so much more._

_

* * *

_Bobby felt Blake's attentions. The span of her fingers around his elbow. So miraculous, whenever she made even the slightest approach. He returned the approach, in kind, his arm bending to retrieve one of her hands. Even through the haze of sleep, he could feel the silken glide of her touch. Then he twined their fingers together, hooking his own around hers in an unconscious assurance of protection.

A sigh from both, as they slipped further into their dreams.

* * *

In dreams I walk with you.  
In dreams I talk to you.  
In dreams you're mine.  
All of the time we're together  
In dreams  
In dreams.

_Closing her eyes, Blake turned her face to the cool autumn breeze and leaned back against the old oak that hid her. Her head tilted back further to see the sunlight filtering through the remaining leaves, daydreaming while her brother rustled through the distant leaves, when something brushed gently down along her nose. Her eyes flew open in surprise, to find a black feather floating just inches from her face. _

_A black feather? _

_She blew it away in a reflexive moment of panic, and then looked up to find a raven not ten feet above her. Her reaction was as natural as could be ... a flinch toward the trunk, then a dash out from beneath the limbs. Sudden movement like that should have scared the bird. Instead, it just stared down at her, cocking its head as if confused by her retreat. Then it knocked on the wood. _

_Summoning her courage, Blake took a step closer, whistling softly. Should she whistle at a raven? When it knocked on the wood again, she found herself laughing under her breath. "Crazy little bird," she teased. _

_Did it just smile at her? It seemed as if some impossible grin curved up at the corners of its beak? _

_Then it flew, twenty yards to the next oak. And she understood. It wanted her to follow. There was something in the way the raven looked at her, something about the tilt of its head. Something that was so familiar that she couldn't even begin to place, but recognized all the same_.

* * *

In her sleep, Blake squeezed Bobby's fingers, loving the feel of his hands, even in sleep. Indeed, she had felt that way for so long, well before he'd accepted just how much she craved his touch.

But this squeeze was an assurance in parting, and she slipped her hand out from his. He seemed to notice, reaching blindly to retrieve the physical connection.

She wanted to be closer though, and squirmed her way to his side ... one hand sliding to where his shoulder met the pillow, the other landing on his chest. Feeling her path, as she squeezed herself in against his body.

* * *

_At first he thought it was a towel, or maybe an empty bag, blown away from an unknowing passenger. Maybe even a toy, dropped by a child being rushed by its parents to their flight, although he realized that was becoming a little far-fetched. _

_But the strange thing was, the white object's movement had a distinct direction to it, as well as a rhythm that would not be caused by the fickle breezes out here on the paved expanse. _

_Squinting, Bobby looked closer, watching in disbelief as the object left a trail of its white coloring behind it. Little puffs of something that trembled_ _and flitted then blew away._

_Feathers, he realized, as one of the puffs came his way. It was a bird. A white dove, hobbling along the ground. A few more wobbling hops, and Bobby realized exactly why it didn't fly away. It was injured, one wing extended as it tried to prevent putting too much weight on one leg. _

_As Bobby closed in on the bird and reached out for it, it stopped and turned and the little dove literally hopped up into his waiting hands. Stunned, he rose to his full height, cupping the little creature closer. _

_Such a tame little dove. "Now what on earth am I going to do with you?" he asked playfully, surprised at the affectionate tone overlaying his own voice. He was not traditionally an_ _animal person. _

_The bird fluffed itself, then set about preening, cleaning any dirt from its already pure white feathers. Bobby watched in fascination. Wild animals were not supposed to be this trusting, were they? _

_Soon he was speaking softly to the little dove, risking a touch of its head, holding his palms as motionless as possible so the bird could maintain its balance. The white bird fluttered back to the ground, cocking its head to look up at its new friend. Then it limped again, three or four paces away, before it stopped and gave Bobby what he could have sworn was a hopeful expression. _

_It wanted him to follow. There really was no decision to make - he would follow the bird.

* * *

_He felt her hand land on his chest, the lightest, softest of touches. Never harsh, never angry, never brutal. _Not … once ... ever._ Then he let out a deep breath, cleansing his lungs as he slept. His mate had just approached him, wanting to be close to him, and likewise, he suspected, hoping that _he_ wanted to be close to _her_ as well.

And he did. How he did.

He took her hand, slipping his fingers gently around hers, cradling them in his palm. Then lifting the delicate flesh to the nook beneath his chin, reveling in the warmth as his head tilted toward his love's and drawing her into his arms. Anxious to curl around her, knowing, somehow, that he would not be leaving the bed again until morning.

* * *

_One would not think that a tree trunk could contain a tunnel. Darkness closed in as she made her way, and the wooden walls by which she'd been guiding herself expanded, then turned to cold, hard stone. _

_She considered turning around and making a hasty retreat. But the raven just kept cawing to her, squawking and flapping its wings just a short distance ahead, whenever she thought about abandoning her path. _

_So she continued, asking the bird a few times where it was leading her, but received no reply. _

_There was a turn in the passageway up ahead, from where both music and a warm glow seemed to emanate. The bird stopped, cocking its head, then it cawed again, looked back at Blake, and took off around the bend. _

_There before her was a large room, in the far corner, stood a man dressed entirely in black ... his back to her as he leaned over a large, colorful box. It was, she guessed, the source of the music. _

_The raven landed on the arm of a chair, and called to Blake one last time, inviting her to enter the room. Then it quieted, cocked its head in polite farewell, and took off in a streak of black -- flying away through a different tunnel. _

_Had the man not noticed the bird? Finally he moved, turning around to face her and propping himself against the machine. He wore a mask, but she knew that he was studying her with the most overpowering intensity.

* * *

_Blake's fingers found their own way, one set creeping around his waist, pressing into the small of his back as she tried to coax him closer, the other landing beneath his chin, this time entirely of their own accord. Fingertips caressed the man she would always recognize in a heartbeat, no matter what mask he might wear.

And as he anchored her firmly into his embrace, he let out a breath, answered by her peaceful sigh. As it was supposed to be, and would remain, for all those nights to come.

* * *

_In a burst of energy, the raven rose from the tunnel entrance, shooting into the sky. It was night, and the dark bird was barely noticeable against the twinkling skyline. _

_Up he went. Up, up, and still further up ... until he could look down on the city that lay meek and oblivious below. Sometimes watching as a guardian, from his vantage point in the sky. Sometimes dropping down - a blur of motion - as he brought justice to their world. _

_Morning was coming though, dawn beginning to break in the east. And so, he made his way to where he knew he had to be. A street lamp was still lit, and nearly blinding to his sensitive eyes. He perched on a metal bar beneath it, squinting in the brightness. _

_Then a squawk, as he hopped higher, choosing a different perch; one more comfortable, one bathed in the shadows. Near enough to the light though, that she would easily locate him upon her arrival. _

_Other birds were awakening now. He could hear the calls beginning in the distance; a slow wave of sound that followed the rays of the sun. More 'caws' from other ravens ... similar to him, yet oh so different. Chirps and trills and then finally, a coo; and that's when he knew she was coming. A flutter of white feathers alighted atop a roof: a dove, fluffing and shaking herself as if waking from a dream. Then an elegant, arcing stretch of each wing -- one by one -- testing and remembering the strength that she too possessed. _

_Foolish creatures who would move about through the upcoming day, so unaware -- or at least, unappreciative -- of what life had given them. Not her though. She knew who was waiting, and she set off toward the west, covering the distance in surprisingly short time. _

_He danced and cawed when she arrived; hopping to the edge of the perch, cocking his head toward her as she delicately folded away her wings. She cooed in reply, dipping her beak, then stepping a few inches closer. _

_Then they watched as more and more sunbeams bathed the city, casting it into a new landscape. Bright patches of warming light interspersed with the equally necessary opposite – cool shadow. They would play in both throughout their day - light and dark - sometimes he leading, sometimes she, but the other always following._

_

* * *

_It's too bad that all these things  
Can only happen in my dreams  
Only in dreams  
In beautiful dreams

More to come....

* * *

A/N - I wrote the story and then the title came, _In Dreams_. I knew there was a movie by that name, and a song. I wasn't very familiar with the song, "_In Dreams" _by Roy Orbison, but when I read the lyrics, I thought it fit the story perfectly. Although I did use the verses out of order….

Then I wanted to hear it, so I checked out youtube and found several amazing videos. If you don't know the song, check out some of the videos on youtube.


	9. Holly Leaves and Christmas Trees

The story continues....

* * *

Holly Leaves and Christmas Trees

Blake didn't really want to be waking up this early. Didn't want to, and probably wouldn't have woken up at all if Bobby had still been there. But when she rolled over, his body wasn't there for her to collide with, and that was disturbing enough to coax her awake the rest of the way.

Of course, 'early' was a relative term. 7:45am was normally late for her. But having a few days off before Christmas was a luxury she wanted to savor - yes, she would have enjoyed a lazy morning in bed - thank you very much - especially if Bobby had still been in that same bed.

Apparently that wasn't meant to be. Breathing a sigh, which promptly turned into a yawn, she sat up. There was no point in trying to sleep anymore. She was awake now. He may not be in their bed, but he was certainly in her head. The dream she'd awoken to was … amorous, to say the least. It was probably why her sleeping body was so shocked not to find his still lying next to her when she awoke.

It's not as if she participated in those dream-spun activities with anyone else, awake or asleep. Dammit, he should be there. If he was going to be difficult, then fine, she would go in search of him. All she needed was something to wear.

Bobby was seated on the sofa, aiming the remote control at the entertainment system. It must have been quite a task too, given both his concentration and the amount of programming he was sending.

Nonetheless, he did hear her somewhat staggering step - her steps, whisper soft as her sock-clad feet padded into the room, stopping only a matter of inches behind him. His head tilted back, his hair brushing her abdomen.

Not only was she not yet dressed for the day, but she'd slipped into one of his shirts instead. The buttons of one of his flannel shirts stretched upward, from the top of his head, to her sleepy, sweetly smiling face. An inviting path he was about to follow, when she beat him to it.

Leaning down, her fingers landing lightly on each side of his head, she gave his lips a lingering, upside down kiss.

"That felt ... backwards," he opined. "How is that possible?"

Blake laughed. "Come back to bed and I'll do it the right way."

"I would hope you would kiss me many, many different ways, if I were to return to the bedroom," he countered. His hand reached for hers as he continued to gaze up at her. "But you looked so peaceful, I thought it better to let you catch up on some sleep. Sometimes I don't think you get enough of it."

"Look who's talking," she quipped with one eyebrow raised.

His head tilted in silent acceptance. There was no point in wasting even one minute of their day in a debate over their differing sleep schedules. The next few days would allow them far more uninterrupted time together than they'd had in a very long time and he planned to take full advantage of that.

"So what are you doing?" she asked, nodding toward the muted television. Cartoons were bouncing around the screen, looking remarkably out of place, here in this bachelor's apartment.

Bobby's eyes returned to his work, one hand now squeezing Blake's atop his shoulder, while the other resumed manipulation of the remote. Numbers flashed on the screen as he finished setting the recorder. "There's a vintage Christmas movie marathon throughout the day. Some of them the same as the ones you were talking about the other night. I discovered the schedule this morning while I was looking for the news. I thought that we could watch them over the next few nights."

"Oh, yeah, I'd love that…" she agreed thoughtfully. As an afterthought she added, "So, you were really listening to me go on and on about those movies. "

His head tilted back once more, anxious for another glimpse of her face, despite the unusual kink it put in his neck. "Of course, sometimes it may look like I'm not listening, but it's all up here," he tapped his left temple with his index finger. "Now, what adventure would wish to get on with today? I am entirely at your service."

Unfortunately, his offer did not receive the answer he had hoped. In fact, she didn't say anything, she just slipped her hand from his, turned, and wandered away across the room. If he hadn't already looked into her eyes and seen she was awake, he might have thought that she was sleepwalking.

"What are you doing?" he finally asked with genuine curiosity, once her journey ended at the coat rack. Surely, she wasn't preparing to go outside wearing little more than a pair of socks and his shirt. Beyond the fact that such sights were firmly reserved to be for his eyes only, it was, after all, early winter out there.

It was his hat she wanted though, and she plucked it off a top hook, studying the brim as she began her return to him.

"I think I'd like to go find some holly – it's one of the things missing around here," she finally replied.

If her request had made any sense at all, he might have noticed that the first of those old movies had just begun on the television, the recorder spinning into gear exactly as he had programmed it. As it was, his brain was too busy trying to decipher what, exactly, she meant.

"Find some holly? Do you mean the actual plant?"

Her smile turned mischievous and she bit her lip. A tell-tale sign that Bobby recognized. Blake had a secret, a good secret.

"I had a dream a few minutes ago," she mused, as she walked back towards him. She moved to stand in front of him, just close enough to be flirtatious. "And you were wearing holly on your hat."

Between her proximity, the purposeful brush of her knees to his, and the endearing expression she wore as she continued to study and pick at his hat, it was an act of willpower for him not to pull her down into his lap. He did possess that attribute though, and simply asked what was perhaps the most obvious question of his life. "Why would I be wearing holly on my hat?"

Patience paid off for both, and Blake climbed into his lap. The holly-less hat was set politely on his head, looking a bit out place in the living room with Bobby in jeans and t-shirt. But that was alright. If that was where she preferred his hat to be, then that was where it would stay.

Another adjustment and she straddled his legs, presenting a rather enticing pose that certainly did not escape his attention. Her hands slid around his neck, while his touch landed on her calves, gentle strength as his fingers pressed a welcome into her flesh.

"We were at the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree lighting," she explained, clearly having a delightful time with the tale she'd begun to spin. "I guess you were just trying to be festive."

Bobby nodded, playing along. It wasn't too surprising so far. They had attended the lighting ceremony two weeks earlier, watching from a nearby balcony. Unfortunately, there had been no holly bushes nearby.

"You have my deepest apologies," he jested. "If I had known you would have preferred holly as a fashion accessory the other night, I certainly would have found a sprig. I hadn't considered my attire to be the object of scrutiny, I wouldn't have wanted to compete with the newly lit tree or of the crowds."

"Oh you weren't under the scrutiny of the crowds in my dream either," she teased, seeming far too pleased with her answer. Her head cocked to the side. _He was going to love this_. "We weren't in the crowd there either. Or on the balcony. We were under the big Christmas tree."

Bobby chuckled. "An interesting choice of hideaway, but I like your imagination. Perhaps not the most private place, but we would have had quite an up-close view of the lights."

And that, was when her answers took a turn.

Her expression softened just a bit. Still playful, but the humorous edge was diminishing. At the back of his neck, her fingers began to move, slipping beneath his hair to stroke the base of his skull.

"We weren't looking at the lights," she hinted. "And I don't actually think you were wearing the hat at the time. It was lying on the ground next to me. And _I_ certainly wasn't wearing it." Leaning close to whisper, "As a matter of fact, I wasn't wearing anything at all."

She knew the split second that his mind tied the two ends of the story together. The grip of his fingers tightened; and she saw him work his jaw.

"It must have been quite a… pleasant dream," he commented, in obvious understatement. "And I presume I was," his head tilted a bit further, "taking full advantage of the situation?"

"Oh yes," she assured, her tone of voice hinting that the picture she painted was every bit as intimate as he'd surmised. "We were both having a wonderful time."

Then she squirmed a little close, snuggled a little closer, walking her knees a little further into the cushions, pinching her legs a little tighter around his. She settled her weight a little harder down into his lap.

His hands did nothing but encourage, guiding her to fit more snugly around him. And when she settled again, his fingers slid onto her thighs, brushing away the shirt tails as was his privilege.

There was an image in his mind's eye. That of her lying nude beneath him, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him in her excitement, her head tilted back in reaction to his touch. An image drawn from so many of his own most cherished memories, and an image he found more seductive than ever, knowing that Blake had conjured it within her dreams.

"And you were being quite the gentleman too," she cooed. Her arms had coiled more securely around his neck, and she was nibbling on his ear lobe.

"I should ..." he paused to clear his throat, "I like to think that my behavior is … appropriate, even in dreams."

One hand left her leg, rising to cup gingerly around the side of her head, steadying her as she hovered just inches away. It was the urge to touch her. The urge to gaze on her. The urge to kiss her, even though he would not act upon it yet. The urge to comfort and protect the woman in his hands.

Her eyes closed in response, her smile growing as she rested her head into his palm.

Would she notice, he wondered, if he lifted her bodily? If he walked them to the bedroom, and kissed her, all before her eyes reopened?

Probably. He doubted that she would protest. Instead, he simply tilted his face to hers, chagrined only when the hat's brim bumped the top of her forehead. Now he knew why the accessory had been lying beside her in the dream. Festive with holly or not, it must have interrupted a kiss.

Blake must have reached the same conclusion, because she promptly removed the offending item and tossed it to the safety of a different cushion, while she returned her attention to him.

He had kissed her in the dream. Many, many times.

She could still kiss him, A brush of her nose to his. A gaze into now smoldering brown eyes, eyes she could actually feel loving her. A press of her lips to his. The last man she would ever love.

It had happened in her dream. Bobby was certain of that. The image in his head took on a new dimension. He was kissing her at the foot of New York's Christmas tree. All he could see was his Blake, melting beneath his kiss. As his beloved held fast, Bobby's hands only did as those of his imaginary counterpart. Hands drifting down her shoulders, her sides, her hips, one hand returning to the plane of her back, the other sliding under her hair to pull her closer.

Blake inhaled in response, literally stealing his breath, before pulling away and leaning her head to the side of his.

"I don't really want to pick holly either," she whispered, pressing their bodies together. "I want you to come back to bed."

Bobby's sigh became a moan, which ended in a low, hungry purr. "Oh…" he murmured, reveling in her words.

A nudge of her head with his own and her focus returned to him, exactly where it should be. Their foreheads met, and now he could watch as her eyes began to dilate, filled with love and hiding flirtatiously behind lids heavy with desire.

Yes, he did quite agree that the intimacies already on the horizon were best saved for the bedroom. Or at least not performed in front of the red-nosed reindeer now prancing across the television screen. Rudolph had last seen Blake as a child. Now, years later, the beloved Christmas mascot did not need to witness the full-grown woman's actions.

Bobby would indulge in another moment though, just one more enthralling moment. His hands took a slow journey across her hips, ending at her waist. Then, after a small squeeze of initiation, his palms traveled slowly and provocatively up her sides.

Her smile quirked and her eyes closed as she rested more fully against him. "Come back to bed," she whispered. "And I'll show you what we were doing under that tree."

His hands retraced their path, clutching impulsively once they'd returned to her lower torso. ... His touch anxious and preparing.

"I'm afraid I have no holly," he warned playfully. "The effect cannot be complete."

"We'll use mistletoe," she assured, wrapping her limbs more tightly around him. "It's still in the bedroom I think."

"Oh yes," he replied with a surprisingly quick confidence. "Yes, I know exactly where that is."

And so he held her tightly, bracing her against himself as he rose to his feet. Another kiss, one that hinted at things to come; another kiss, powerful enough to draw the breath right out of Bobby's lungs.

But then, "Just a second," she whispered, before he could do anything more than turn.

Her legs had cinched around his waist, that flannel shirt of his riding up. It was time to return to the bedroom, in Bobby's opinion. _Dear heavens, was it time to return to the bedroom_. "What?" was all he could verbalize, when he suddenly found himself halted.

She leaned down, stretching almost out of his arms, but trusting he would still be able to hold her. Trusting that nothing she did would compromise his grip; much less make him put her down, until they were both in their bed, beneath that imaginary tree. She would take this one final opportunity to make the morning's adventure truly memorable.

Her fingers snagged the brim of his hat, and she leveraged herself back up. "Can't forget this," she teased. "We can at least be festive, holly or not."

* * *

More to come...


	10. Crystalline Belief

The story continues....

* * *

**_Warning: I don't know about anyone else, but this one makes me cry._**

Crystalline Belief

_What are you doing Bobby?_ He chastised himself silently as he sat at the busy little computer desk. He really shouldn't be doing this. _She wouldn't have to know._

It was rude. It was a betrayal of trust. It was a blatant, undeniable invasion of privacy. And not just anyone's privacy, but Blake's. The one person he supposedly loved and respected. He shouldn't feel free to go through her things. Especially something as personal as the handwritten letter he'd just stumbled across.

He knew this in theory. But his instincts were telling him another story. The battle was tough, but when Blake's well-being was in the balance, his choice was clear, especially when he felt there was reason to be concerned.

She had stumbled into the kitchen and taken his mug from his hands, took a large gulp of the scalding hot coffee and turned around and gone right in to take a shower, leaving him on his own. He shook his head and smiled as he watched her walk away. He knew she wasn't much or a morning person, but she usually made the attempt of a mumbled 'good morning'. Maybe she wasn't feeling well, coming down with the cold that seemed to making the rounds downtown.

He'd taken his morning coffee into the living room with him as he went to grab a file to review before they left for One Police Plaza. Retrieving the file from the desk, his eyes inevitable wandered across items strewn across the desktop. Across the notes scribbled and posted around the edges of her laptop's monitor. Across the mug of hot chocolate from last night, that was now decidedly cold chocolate, sitting just out of harm's way, and then onto a collection of notepad sheets filled with Blake's artistically inclined handwriting. _This_ _must have been what she'd been working on last night._ Writing a letter, to one of the three or four old friends with whom she still maintained written contact. In this day of nanosecond emails, instant messages and text messaging, it made him smile to know that she still kept these more personal traditions with at least a few old friends.

For the record, he hadn't intended to read any of them. He sat down, opened his binder, and started to pull out his own notes. But for a man who's spent literally countless hours of his life reading, it's difficult to simply 'turn off' the comprehension of words. When he reached over to take another sip of coffee, his eyes landed on the handwritten words again

'_I know how hard it is to put things like this in the past._' That was the first phrase his gaze landed on, and it rather bluntly set the tone.

But the thing is, those words automatically suggested something private, and personal. Just as they also suggested that someone or something might be bothering her. Bothering her. Hurting her.

It was the pull of the latter that won, and his eyes began a rapid, superficial scan of the paper.

He shouldn't have been doing it. Especially when she, of all people, trusted him. He knew it. That's why he tried so hard to both read, and _not _read. He just wanted to make certain, no _needed _to make certain that everything was all right with Blake. He needed to put his mind at ease. He knew there would be repercussions if Blake found out, and he was willing to take the hit for what he was about to do. Trying to see the words without digesting them, until he found something that would truly set off an alarm.

And in the end, by the time he reached the second and third sheets, there were other phrases that forced their way into his comprehension.

'_I know you were worried at the time._'

'_I know you want me to be happy._'

'_Some things just can't be the same any more._'

'_That's when it hurts so much to keep going on._'

He was beginning to feel a bit ill. In theory, this could one of be many things. But, it also could be a letter of farewell, a Dear John letter. It was bordering dangerously close to that, and he couldn't keep the nagging doubt that he could be the potential recipient.

Was this why she'd been so busy the last couple of nights, and completely unwilling to discuss the details?

Was that why she'd been so glum this morning? Neither grogginess, nor impending sickness, but rather a more worrisome discontent.

His eyes began to speed read, though he was still reluctant to actually read - no longer to spare her privacy in case he was wrong, but to spare himself in case he was right. Relief, or at least the beginnings of it, came only when he latched onto one specific, and rather surprising, mention… of himself. '_I think Bobby, especially, would understand that._'

Finally able to breathe again, he took a breath, deep and controlled, chastising himself this time for jumping to conclusions. This letter was not for him. She wouldn't refer to him in the third person.

But that phrase, _'I think Bobby especially, would understand that.'_ That, in his opinion, validated his concern, and he flipped back to the first sheet, now intent on reading the letter outright. He would find out what was wrong, ascertain if he could be of any assistance, and make his apologies later. Opportunity was lost though, when from down the hall came the sound of a door latch opening, then the soft padding of bare feet. Blake appeared, wrapped in a thick bathrobe and toweling her hair dry. "That feels a little better," she sighed, though she still seemed rather tired.

Or sullen.

"Any luck?" She motioned towards his binder. "Solved your case yet?"

"Uh… no, not yet. It's still a bit of a … of a mystery." he replied. He quickly shuffled the sheets of papers back into their makeshift stack, and was doing his best not to glance at them until he could figure out the best way to raise the issue. "I think that I need to look at this from another angle. Maybe quite a few different angles."

He paused for a moment, then calmly added, "Especially since I'm beginning to question what I know so far."

Blake smirked, just somber enough not to be confused with a light-hearted response. "I don't think you should do that. Your 'gut' is usually right, Bobby."

That prompted a slight tilt of his head as he turned his gaze to her. "Blake," he began, rising from the chair. This had to be dealt with, and dealt with seriously. "Is there anyone … anything bothering you?"

"Anything that you think I would… or want me to 'especially understand'?"

Blake's head rose knowingly, ending in a brief nod of recognition. "You read the letter."

* * *

_Was she angry?_ No, not really. That kind of surprised her. At the end of the day, she knew he always had her interests at heart.

"I'm sorry if I've offended you," he apologized. "But I think I have a right to know what's going on here, or at least deserve some sort of an explanation."

"Just like I should have the right to or deserve my privacy?" The pain in her voice, obvious.

_Not anger. Disappointment maybe? _He silently continued to watch her. And there came that drop in her demeanor again. Her affect was off. It wasn't guilt. Or anger. It certainly wasn't amusement. It seemed a weighty sadness now.

He watched as her eyes cast about the room, doing her best to keep her gaze from latching onto him. "It's to my parents," she finally replied.

Well that silenced Bobby. He remained rooted in place, as unsure of how to continue as he'd ever been about anything.

She walked over to the desk and reached down, collecting the papers; arranging them neatly and precisely on the desk, aligning the pages along the side of the desk. She hadn't tried to hide them. _Why didn't I? Did I want Bobby to see them, to read them and then confront her, just as he had done?_ Indeed, after she'd finished writing those words last night, she barely remembered leaving the desk. Between the tears and the lateness of the hour, she'd just pushed the final product aside wondering if it had been worth the effort it had taken.

Sleep had helped. A little, at least.

Bobby watched as she walked the few steps over to the sofa. She sat and slowly drew her legs up, pulling them close to her chest, resting her chin on her upraised knees.

"This is what I've been working on, the last couple nights. It really isn't that big of a deal. I mean… I … I don't know why I didn't tell you. ... Probably because I was afraid you'd think it was ridiculous. Or childish. They've been gone so many years."

He finally moved, joining her on the sofa. He reached out and brought his hand up to caress her upturned cheek. When he spoke this time, his voice had lost all sense of that churning worry and suspicion that had been there moments earlier. Now, its timber had fallen nearly as far as his eyes.

"Missing your parents is never 'ridiculous'." Missing anyone who is lost to us is never childish." Bobby leaned down to catch her eye. He understood this from his own experience. _If I'd only picked up on her mood sooner. _

Her attention and gaze remained on the letter, Blake now doing the same thing Bobby had done earlier, looking it over, yet trying not to read too closely. It was simply a delaying tactic, a diversion. She knew that the minute she focused on him again, her tears would return.

"I should have told you, I know," she said. "I don't know why I turned this in to such a big secret. In a couple days it'll be the anniversary of the night they died. Thirty years," She blinked rapidly, her eyes welling already, just from the gentle touch of Bobby's hand upon hers. "You'd think I'd be over it by now, I thought I'd be fine. Just like every other year. I really did. And then …"

At last, she raised her head to face him. It was, in all honesty, simply the completion of her statement, and acknowledgment of the truth. Four days ago, it had been the thought of him that had tipped the scales. It was him that had made this anniversary different. For the first time in a very long time, as this yearly marker loomed, she was happy. Really and truly happy. He was largely responsible for that. And yet, suddenly she felt an overwhelming sadness descend upon her. Happy and sad in the same measure.

She wasn't looking over her shoulder. She wasn't frightened. She wasn't grieving. She wasn't alone. She was genuinely and completely in love. With a man who in many ways, wasn't so unlike herself.

Thoughts spun in her head, and the tears began to fall. Maybe, just maybe, because this year there was someone she trusted to catch them.

She moved into his arms, naturally and easily as they rose around her. Silently. A search for comfort; and that comfort freely given.

He whispered into her hair, sad, heartfelt whispers of "I'm sorry," and, "It'll be okay." A pillar of strength forming around her, while her own slipped away.

And she wept.

After so many years, it had suddenly become so easy to weep about this. Feeling truly safe now, in this place, with this man, she allowed herself these tears.

* * *

The slow start she'd had on the morning seemed long ago, the coffee machine having long since processed its caffeinated elixir, the brew now nearly as cold as last night's hot chocolate. Her hair had dried, and parts of her were just threatening to chill, dressed as she was in nothing more than her bathrobe.

Bobby had held her until her tears began to slow, offering all the warmth and comfort he could. His hand had stroked much of the dampness from her hair; his shirt absorbing the trails of wetness that traced her cheeks. He said little, waiting with only the occasional whisper while so much ingrained sorrow was cleansed from her system.

Minutes passed, threatening to sweep around into an hour, while the pair remained unmoving. His transgression of glancing at the letter was no longer an issue - to either of them - her pain trumping all. And when she spoke again, it was not to chastise him for the breach of her personal space. It was instead to bring him further into it.

"I was going to tell you everything, tonight. I was…" she spoke softly, almost as if to convince herself, as her head rested on his shoulder, reddened eyes rising toward his own. "I've felt horrible for keeping this to myself, for not saying why. I'm not even sure I know myself. I just had to get some things out of me, before I could even figure out up from down. I didn't want to risk it spilling over onto you."

He drew her tighter, his hand passing once again atop her head. "I would have understood. You must know that I would have understood."

"I do. I do." she agreed sadly, burrowing her face beneath his chin. It was safe there. The world was safe there. She was now regretting not having taken refuge here these last several days. But her healing had taken another route. "I just haven't been myself. I know. I spent the last two nights working on that letter."

Bobby nodded.

"... And so many memories, came rushing back," Blake's head adjusted on his shoulder. The grief was abating. "My parents had been so concerned about my brother that there were times when I felt left out. My dad used to argue, lecture me about 'winning' him back, to make him see the importance of family. Now I think that maybe it wasn't just my brother those words were meant for, he wanted me to understand as well. And yet, I've been here alone, all this time. Until now."

Again Bobby nodded, his hands sliding comfortingly across her back. He knew those thoughts. His entire life had been filled with 'what ifs'. But he'd learned to connect the dots, and see the destination as worth the journey. The value of asking the question. This brought him back to the question that he'd been asking himself since he'd met Blake Jamison. _Was she intended to be his salvation? _ Their circumstances were very different, but her pain was so eerily similar to his. _Was easing her pain, was the way to ease his own?_

He assumed she had experienced similar thoughts, because as her arms curled tighter around his waist, she murmured the caveat_. "Until now."_

"Is that what you believed I, especially, would understand?" he queried softly, ending with a nestle of his chin to her temple.

She looked up again, this time in surprise. "You didn't read it, the letter," she concluded. "did you?"

"I ... I scanned it. I was … concerned. Worried about you."

She smiled again, hoping he hadn't jumped to any wrong conclusions, but knowing that in all likelihood, he probably had. Why else would he have confronted her? Another squeeze of his torso, just in case he had, as gentle reassurance.

"I also realized that sometimes, appreciation comes too late," she explained. "That made me think of you too. That's what I thought you'd probably understand that."

"That's why I decided to write the letter. To let them know that I finally understood. That I finally understand and appreciate what they'd been trying to do for my brother and me, when I couldn't then. The power of the written word. I thought it would be good for me, and I've spent the last two nights taking that advice to heart."

And there was the truth, the truth behind her secretive evenings. That she'd been here, embarking on such a heart-wrenching project. It made Bobby's heart ache too, and he cursed himself for not having searched her out, sooner. For not having pressed the issue. He loved her. Shouldn't he have known? Somehow?

"I had to tell them about you," she continued. "I always said that you'd have liked them. I think they would have liked you too. You're not that different, in some ways." Her hand rubbed his waist, a little life returning to her behavior, at the idea of Bobby in agreement with her father. "I would have loved for them to have met you. Talked to you. To know you."

Bobby took a deep breath ... as amazed as he was saddened.

"Oh, Blake," he soothed. "There is no need to explain, least of all for including my name in that letter. You must know I'm honored." His finger found her chin, coaxing her eyes back to his. "I respect the story of your parents. I always have. I ... wish I had known what you were going through these last few days. But there really is no need to explain yourself. I was wrong to have read what I did."

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "None of this was a secret. I know I should have told you sooner, I did intend to, it's just ..."

He was already shaking his head, a finger moving to silence her. There was no need for apologies. He just wanted to help now.

And he did have an idea. "There is something we could do," he began, "once you've finished the letter. Something that might bring you some peace. Or at least closure."

"I _am_ done with it," she sighed with a significant dose of sarcasm. "I can't take another night like last couple."

He wrapped her back into his embrace. No. No matter what she decided to do, tonight would not be another like the last. He would make certain of that.

"Then perhaps it needs to be delivered, Blake. Give them the words you've struggled so hard to find. Let them know, let them see, your caring and understanding."

A pause, while she questioned silently, then aloud, "What are you saying?"

"I am saying that we should put it to the fire," he replied quite sincerely. "I am suggesting that we burn it. It's a time-honored tradition. Countless letters to heaven have been carried up in clouds of smoke."

And if he was worried over her reaction, he needn't have been. She took it in stride. "Yeah, I've actually heard of that," Blake pondered. "Not sure I believe it though. Do you?"

A faint, cynical, "Hmph," from the man. "There are many things in this world that give me pause for thought. Many traditions that leave me shaking my head, and others that bring me hope. But yes, I admit this would be one of the latter." Propping his head atop hers. "And if the heavens were to listen to anyone, I believe they would listen to you. If it would bring you comfort, then perhaps it's a tradition worth following."

"Maybe," she agreed thoughtfully. "Yeah, maybe. I'll have to think about it."

That was all he asked. In truth, that was more than he asked and his hand returned to its gentle stroking of her hair.

"I should probably get dressed and get going," she finally decided, rolling those first inches off his chest. She stretched, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead. It had been such an exhausting night, emotionally draining. And now again this morning. And she still had a long day ahead of her.

Bobby helped her to her feet, following closely behind. Watching. Making certain to his satisfaction that she was back on an even keel, before the real world could have another go at her. And even then, the instinct remained to shield her, now that he knew what she'd put herself through.

Blake shook her head, tugging at her bathrobe since she no longer had his close warmth. Sensing his unease, she began, "I can't miss work right now." She retrieved her hair towel from the back of the sofa and began folding it, fidgeting with it, absently between her hands. "I'll be all right," she assured him. Then a hesitation; and a breath. "Really, I will."

It was, to a large extent, a facade. Bobby knew it. He was well versed in facades of all manner and type. But there was nothing he could do unless she wanted him to, and so his head bowed in solemn acceptance. She was trying to recover on her own two feet, and he was trying to let her.

Blake nodded, glancing back toward the desk. Then to the letter, waiting patiently for its author's decision. It made her blink with new emotion, at the motivation to write it, at Bobby having read parts of it, and finally, at the idea of her parents somehow, someway learning her thoughts. Wondering if they might find some relief within it too.

She was tired. In so many ways. And though the tears were exhausted for the time being, it all... still... just... hurt.

"In a minute," she finally replied, drifting back into his arms. "In a minute. I'll be all right."

It was going to be a rough day. And a cold one according to the TV weatherman on last night's news.

* * *

Channel 4's weatherman had it right this time, and the evening turned even more bitterly cold once darkness had settled. It wasn't really a night to be outside, even if that just meant a quick drink before heading home, or staying to take part in a good old-fashioned pub quiz down the street. If two people were determined to spend the evening together, it was a time for huddling under blankets, not stepping out onto rooftops.

That's exactly what Bobby and Blake were doing though, standing atop the apartment building. The clock and its slowly measured passing of minutes and hours, the interviews and phone calls marking off Blake's progress through the day; while for Bobby, it had been short, frequent glances at the hour hand, followed by short frequent glances across the room, at Blake, as he had tracked the passing of the day closely. Now knowing the source of her unease had been even more stressful than having no idea at all. Bobby spent the day wondering not merely _what_ Blake was doing, but rather, _how_.

Bobby had been waiting for her when she arrived back at the apartment. The events of their evening were set into motion with one, simple action on her part. No sooner had he embraced her, than she pulled an envelope from her purse. She'd laid it silently atop the book he'd been reading, and he'd known that her decision had been made.

She hadn't had to ask. Nor had he, in the end. She only had to wait a few nervous minutes while he gathered the necessary supplies. And then, beneath the gathering clouds, they'd made their way up onto the roof. Somewhere that no one would think to look for them - except maybe her parents, if they were lucky.

"For once, I'm happy that fire is your specialty," Blake quipped half-heartedly, while Bobby crouched over the flame he'd just brought to life in the bowl of an old barbecue. Wood and kindling, lit by a wooden match. As natural as possible, in a way that just seemed fitting.

Bobby rose, his own half-smile found within his voice. "An open flame," he noted. "I thought that seemed appropriate." He looked up at the ceiling of low clouds, the moon and a few stars just barely managing to peek through. "Hopefully with no interruptions."

Blake watched Bobby's words escape in warm, humid puffs of breath. Rising and dispersing in the night air, almost like the ashes and flecks of paper and ink that would soon follow. She even fancied she could follow the trail higher, up to through the night sky. "I hope it doesn't rain tonight," she commented, crossing her arms. "I don't think I could handle that. Too much like tears."

Yes, Blake had her own relationship with the rain. A sudden downpour and rain-slicked road had been contributing factors in her parent's death. "There will be no weeping, tonight," he assured. "Your parents would never weep over hearing from their daughter."

At that, Blake nodded. Thoughtfully. Almost ready to believe him. "It's sure cold though," she concluded. "Crisp. Like you can almost feel things better. More sharply. I wonder if it'll snow before we go back inside."

"Perhaps. Perfect, pure, crystals from heaven, lightly floating in the air?" His gaze met hers again. "Yes, I could see that."

And that brought some genuine hope to her smile.

"I believe the fire is ready. If you'd like to ..." his hand motioned toward the flame, completing his sentence. She nodded, and pulled the envelope from her coat pocket.

She hadn't even reread it, in all honesty. Let alone changed anything. She'd written it from her heart, and that was enough. Then in skimming it, Bobby's eyes had been the last gaze to touch it. That too seemed somehow fitting. She placed the envelope in the fire as carefully as the jumping flames would allow. All those words that had needed to come out for years. Now, they were disintegrating. Transforming. Floating away as the edges of the paper curled and burned back.

Her eyes closed, allowing her to focus on the surprisingly comforting warmth thrown off by such a small fire. The smell of the pine Bobby must have used in the kindling. Even the crackling, the fizzes, as the delicate paper burned.

And when she looked up again, she had every intention of slipping her arm within Bobby's to thank him for this. To thank him for suggesting it. To thank him for preparing it. To thank him for being here with her. What she found though, would have made even those praises of gratitude grossly inadequate.

Bobby had reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out his own letter. A neatly folded piece of paper; very clean and white on the outside; merely folded in half. And quite pointedly, he sought her permission. "I… I wrote this too … for your parents as well. If I may?"

"You wrote to them too?" she asked, her voice barely registering above a whisper.

His head bowed; slowly and politely. "After what you said this morning, I thought that perhaps it is the conversation that rightfully should have been between us. Do you want to read it first... before I..." he stopped as he saw the negative shake of her head.

And now it was no longer merely the cold that stung Blake's eyes, but tears threatening anew. Not quite those of grief though, maybe a little of that hope Bobby had mentioned earlier, instead?

"If you'd rather I didn't... is it okay if I do this?"

She nodded her agreement, then bit her lip watching as he laid his letter gingerly atop the crumbling ashes of her own. He stepped back, his attention lingering on the flames. Willing the words upward? Just as she had been doing?

And then he turned, one hand reaching for her own. Silently inquiring if she was all right. Offering his comfort against the memories; his protection against the cold; and his love against anything else the world might throw at her. Doing exactly as his written word had just pledged.

"I'm ok," she reassured, taking his hand and stepping into his arms.

The orange flames crackled beside them, tendrils of smoke meandering slowly skyward. They'd get there eventually. They had a long way to travel.

And in return, from overhead, came the first snowflakes. They sailed through the fire's glow; those caught within the heat clinging to existence for a few precious seconds, before succumbing and melting to the earth.

Several landed in Bobby's hair, remaining crystalline and alert, as if deciding who, exactly, this man was. Several others found Blake's hair, seeping in almost immediately when touched by the warmth that surrounded her.

It was beautiful, glistening just inches before Blake's eyes as others settled into the fire. These were not tears, in no way were they tears. But perfect, pure, crystals from heaven.

* * *

More to come...


	11. The Language of Flowers

The Language of Flowers

5:24 am

The pair of black shoes stopped at the doorway of the apartment with a muffled rustle of fabric shattered the early morning quiet causing the man to wince as the flap of his coat was flicked back, as the man's hand reached into his pant pocket for the keys. Not finding them, he shifted the contents in his right arm to his left and checked the other pocket. In exasperation, he patted himself down as if searching a suspect he'd just placed under arrest. In his frustration, he failed to notice that his actions raised the noise level in the hallway only when it rebounded back to him. Guiltily he glanced to see if anyone was witnessing his dilemma.

No one was likely to hear him though, despite his close proximity to his neighbors. Most still likely lay sleeping behind identically closed and locked doors, or sat bleary-eyed over early morning cups of coffee, waiting for the brain to engage before committing themselves to starting the day. As for his own lady, her alarm was set to ring in just less than six minutes, according to the readout on his cell phone.

He had less than six minutes, to set everything up. He wasn't going to make it. So much for the breakfast surprise, he'd envisioned. His early morning trip had taken longer than he had planned. His frustration clicked up another notch. _Where were his keys?_

He hated the thought that he might have to spoil the surprise by ringing the doorbell, seeking help in entering his own apartment. _Was there a way to turn this to his advantage? _

_Improvise_. Maybe the gift would have more impact if delivered by a proper suitor? As a suitor who had braved the last of an icy winter night to arrive at dawn's breaking in order to present that gift. _Yeah, that could work._

The gift was merely a simple arrangement of flowers. A simple arrangement that he had painstakingly researched and labored over before settling on the arrangement he now carried. It was proving more difficult to keep an entire arrangement of blooms in the pristine form and order he'd so carefully determined presented each its in own perfect glory. There had been occasions when he had come bearing similar gifts. Though in the past on those occasions, limited to a single blood red rose, and presented with a much more calculated purpose. He could only push such recollections aside for now. This was much more wonderful, and truth be told, he wasn't confident enough to feel 'calculating'. _Was it going to be enough, a simple bouquet of flowers?_

_Ring the doorbell or knock? Or maybe the fire escape? _He could envision her confusion at waking up in the empty apartment and groggily stumbling across the apartment to answer the door. He'd been feeling nervous earlier, but now he was feeling foolish as well. Neither boded well and the level his self-consciousness rose proportionately.

It often took quite awhile for Blake Jamison to be civil in the morning, let alone awake. There were days he would swear it never happened. She would want to know why he'd been out so early, why he was standing outside and why she had to come open the door for him. What, in heaven's name, was he going to say? Should he just hide behind the bouquet and hope her surprise distracting enough that she wouldn't ask why he needed to be let in to his own apartment?

Well he certainly wasn't going to crawl in through the window and loom over the bed. With so few options, he was left with a mental coin toss. As the last few minutes ticked down to the half-hour mark, the collection of brightly colored blooms was straightened, his slightly shaking hand was run across his face and up through his hair, throat was cleared, and a black-gloved hand was raised, one knuckle crooked to knock politely on the door.

* * *

5:30 am.

Blake's alarm waited another five seconds, rarely are two clocks as synchronized as they appeared in popular fiction or espionage films. The obnoxious buzzing noise, was so offensive, grating and loud the man could hear it ringing, through the door.

A delicate hand emerged from underneath the covers to grope blindly for the off button. As she took her first deep breath of the day, she turned and reached out for a quick cuddle with Bobby and was startled to find his side of the bed empty and very cold. As her deep breath turned into a yawn, she covered her eyes with her hand, and let out a deep breath of concern. _When had Bobby awoken and left the bed, left the room? _She normally awoke whenever he carefully would leave the bed and she wondered the cause of his unrest was today. He had seemed so settled lately and sleeping so much better. Fortifying herself for what awaited her outside the bedroom; she stood slowly and reached for her robe. Walking out of the bedroom, she was surprised to find it still in darkness, expecting to see Bobby in his favorite chair either reading or asleep with his book on his lap. Even more surprising was to hear the series of tapping. Still groggy and slightly shocked, she wasn't sure of the source. Was it coming from the door or the window?

"Bob-by?" Calling out for him, she advanced to the door, as she scanned the apartment. _Who would be outside so early in the morning? _Receiving no response to her query, she stopped to retrieve her service revolver from the desk. With her hand on the doorknob, she asked, "Yes? Who is it?"

A muffled and slightly embarrassed sounding, "It's me." Slipping the gun into the pocket of her robe, she opened the door. "Bobby, what are you… " her question trailed off to silence.

His grin beamed with far more happiness than any one person should be allowed this early in the morning, and the man in black politely tipped his head in greeting. In an instant, he had vowed that above all, today would proceed as properly as possible.

"Good morning, Blake," he greeted cheerily as the door was opened. "I hope the breaking dawn finds you well and in a good mood?"

One feminine eyebrow cocked cynically, it was far too early for such chipper-ness and good cheer, especially from Robert Goren.

"I haven't quite figured that out yet, and what have you been doing so early this morning?" she queried in a tone that bordered on accusatory, while wrapping her arms around herself as she backed away from the doorway. _The hallway was cold!_

"I just realized you weren't here. When did you leave? Where did you go? At first I thought the tapping was coming from the window, maybe from all the birds around here..." she waved her hands towards the window in annoyance.

Bobby's walked past her, the flowers still hidden behind his back. He paused at her comment, his expression of surprise concealed by the mask of early morning near light. Yes, he was aware of the significance of birds in the history of Valentine's Day. Of Chaucer's love birds. Hopefully his voice maintained its veneer of casualness as he asked, "Birds? Really? What type?"

"Huh?"

"What type of bird?" Hopefully that was more casual than it sounded to his ears. To him it sounded almost as if he were interrogating her.

She shook her head, shook her entire pajama-clad body actually, against the draft still blowing in. "Pigeons. Or that flock of doves we've seen." As she closed the door.

_For this was sent on Valentine's Day;_

_When every bird comes there to choose his mate._

He hesitated, long enough to ponder a flock of doves, it reminded him of … _something… other than the quote from Chaucer. _When he'd found his voice again it was surprisingly level, softened with unspoken affection. "That would be a lovely sight on this lovely morning. But for now, I hope that I will do until they appear?"

"You are much better and much more welcome," she laughed, the fog of sleep starting to clear from her head. "You seem very, ummm, very … I don't know." _Obviously her sleepiness hadn't cleared completely. _"Secretive. Just what is it that you have behind your back, Goren?" Her curiosity was definitely peaked.

She watched as he advanced into the room, his progress as graceful as she'd come to expect, and she walked over to join him. That's when she issued her proper greeting, a softly cooed "Happy Valentine's Day," and an embrace that was sure to make him forget the chill winds of February.

Bobby offered only one arm in return, gently wrapping around her only enough to hold her while the same holiday greeting was murmured to the crown of her head. His other hand emerged from behind his back, the flash of color revealing itself.

"Oh Bobby," she smiled, stepping back and accepting the bouquet. "They're beautiful."

And this … this did not surprise her. While she had not expected to awaken to such a sight like this today, the flowers just seemed to fit. For him. Just as his grin seemed so utterly appropriate as his head tilted modestly.

"So far, you never cease to amaze me." Seeing his slightly confused and now shy smile, she added, "Come on," she coaxed, taking his hand in hers. "Let's go sit down."

"I wanted you to know when you woke up that I knew what day today was and that I was ... thinking of you. Always."

Blake was switching on a lamp, the flowers safely in her possession. When her attention returned to him, her smile had softened and had gone almost dreamlike. It wasn't from lost sleep, but rather from the knowledge that she wasn't dreaming. That he'd gotten up early and had gone out in the cold and early morning to have the bouquet for her when she awoke. "I think I might have guessed that," she answered demurely. "without these. But I'm glad you got them for me and I'm glad to have them. Thank you."

Sitting down, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply from the bouquet. Then a hum of enjoyment, while shifting cushions announced his arrival beside her. His arm curved around her shoulders, drawing her against his side as a small smile of satisfaction graced his face.

He'd pleased her. He's surprised her. Thus pleasing himself.

But, had she noticed yet, that the bouquet included no roses?

It was certainly rich in color. Small, creamy blossoms were interspersed with bright red tulips, the ensemble then accented with dainty violets and tiny bursts of a corn blue flower.

The bouquet contained no roses, traditional and as expected as they may be. She either understood, or thought nothing of it, but he did briefly wonder which it was. Her fingertip slowly traced, carefully across plush, cream-colored petals. "They really are beautiful," she cooed. "I guess I probably should have expected something like this, shouldn't I?" Her head leaned to his shoulder, to find his face drifting close. So close, that her caress instinctively left the flowers, offered now to his cheek.

_Was that a note of disappointment or… ?_

"They seem slightly … unorthodox." Blake brought the bouquet up again to inhale its delicate fragrance.

Somewhat defiantly, Blake continued, "Now, I hope you realize these are going on my desk," as she continued to inspect the ribbon-adorned plastic reservoir that supplied water to the stems. Their appearance on her desk would pique the curiosity of some, as she said, the bouquet was a bit unorthodox for the occasion, but hadn't people become accustomed to unorthodox from Bobby. It had long since stopped being a secret that the two detectives were living together.

His lips nuzzled her hair in response; his murmured, "I would be honored," truly meant. He'd suspected, and he'd hoped, but never took for granted, what she deemed 'appropriate'. The reality was infinitely sweeter. A statement to the world, even if the world wouldn't fully understand, as statement and testament whose truest meaning, in reality, need reach no further than the length and breadth between the two of them.

Though its depth, Blake might not yet have even realized.

"Are you familiar with the Victorian tradition behind such bouquets?" Bobby questioned, as she dipped her nose to a tulip. "It's a bit of an art form. A classic flow of language. Though it's rather fallen out of favor."

"The language of flowers?" she guessed. "You mean the meanings behind what each flower represents. Yeah, I've heard of it. Not that I've given it much thought. Although I'm sure you have…" She gave him a mischievous smile. "I remember about violets – that they symbolize - humility and commitment, but I'm not sure what the tulips mean? That you think I'd look quite fetching tiptoeing through a field of them?" she joked.

Bobby's head swayed lower in amusement. Humor. Good. Perhaps the extent of the true symbolism would not overwhelm her then.

He began, as if lecturing a remedial class in symbolism, "While roses are often considered to be the traditional representation for the heart's affections," he began, "red tulips are just as strong, just as a powerful, just as … forthright a declaration of … love."

Her eyes met his again, a small breath of emotion escaping her lungs. Without actually saying 'it', he had clearly, in his mind, represented 'it'. This time when she reached for him, it was not to caress his cheek, but rather to curve her hand around his neck and offer a kiss to the warmth of his throat. The vulnerable underside of his chin, where she murmured that she loved him too.

More kisses, as the couple pressed together in a way that had nothing to do with a winter morning's chill. She had already turned further into her love, the flowers held gingerly between them. Only when she settled back into his shoulder, did the blossoms regain her attention.

"And these?" she asked softly, indicating the five-petal bursts of powder blue. "They're forget-me-nots, aren't they?"

"Very good," he congratulated. "Included in tribute to you. In gratitude. For every day that, though I may be 'absent' in spirit, I know I was never forgotten."

She thought back to the dark days of recent months, and her head nodded briefly in understanding before she shook it briefly, two fingers reverently cupping one of the loyal little flowers. "Never," she affirmed. "Not once, not ever."

"And of course, the violets," he continued. "As you said, violets signify commitment, humility and faithfulness. His grip around her tightened. "There will be more February fourteenths. Many more - if you'll have them - if you'll have me."

Blake's breath released in her own hushed promise, "Absolutely, never doubt that." as she reached for another kiss, another caress. It was, perhaps, the best gift either could give the other, that of the future.

Pulling a whisper's breath away, she asked lightly, "And will the flowers change every year?"

"But of course. Do you think I would not have new things to say?" Long fingers slid down her cheek, having long since abandoned the inferior flowers. "That I would not have new things for which to be grateful?"

Blake hummed her contentment, pressing one more kiss to his neck. "Just that you love me, Bobby. That's all you need to say."

"I do," was his whispered response. "Oh, I do." Still, he was unable to produce the actual words from his lips, he repeated. "I do."

* * *

More early morning minutes rolled by, as the pair curled in toward each other again, as more endearments were uttered, as the world around them continued to wake. Soon another buzzing noise was heard, this one from the apartment below. An alarm clock set for 6:00 am, and followed quickly by another, from upstairs.

"It's getting late, it will be dawn soon," Bobby had no choice but to acknowledge.

"Yeah, you're right," she sighed in defeat, sitting up, then forward. Like it or not, they would soon have to face the winter chill, rather than stay within the warmth of each other's arms. Another day dealing with the worst that humanity could deal out, rather than the best. At least these flowers would remain with her, sustain her, and she sought instant comfort in another deep inhalation.

"Hey. What about these?" she asked, gently touching one of the creamy, thick blossoms. Just larger than the violets and forget-me-nots, they were scattered unassumingly between the large red tulips.

"Miniature Persian buttercups," Bobby announced, obviously liking the name.

"Oooh, that sounds so exotic," she replied, then sampled its faintly sweet scent. "I've seen them before though."

"Very possibly. It's known more commonly as Tecolote Ranunculus. 'Mini', and 'purple' in this particular case."

She glanced back at him again, noting that the technicalities were certainly flowing, but not the symbolism. "And what, pray tell, do they mean?"

His head tilted, while Blake returned her attention to the plush, pale little flowers. They were really very mild in aroma, and the blossoms seemed to bundle up within themselves. Compact; modest; certainly not showy, yet fascinating.

"That the receiver is radiant with charms, and rich in attractions," Bobby's low voice uttered.

It took her a moment to absorb through that revelation. But coming from Bobby, from her Bobby, yeah, she understood the sentiment. It not only referred to previous claims he had made in the past, when caught doing exactly what he was doing right now, but other allusions as well. His eyes were on her, watching closely. 'Drawn to her', as he'd often said. There was little physical contact, except for the light brush of her hip to his knee. But he was absolutely touching her, the weight of his eyes known and recognized from months past.

Though she hid it from him, a bashful smile rose on her face. Which was then carried in her voice, as she asked, "And that's why you're staring at me?"

A faint, muffled chuckle came from behind her, followed by the affectionate caress of fingers down her arm. "I'm sorry, I can't help but notice, how appropriate those buttercups are, how they accentuate - you."

She laughed softly, and turned to find his head dropping ever so slightly. His embarrassed, humbly chastised gaze was shifting to the flowers, and her hand reached out to catch his chin.

"I didn't say I wanted you to stop," she noted softly, her attention holding his. And this time, that unyielding stare was shared equally, between eyes hidden from the rest of the world; revealing what little they would, to her alone - and eyes still waking to a most unique Valentine's Day; seeing even more, perhaps, than he realized. Indeed, neither dropped their gaze, until another alarm went off upstairs, from a clock just a few minutes slow.

Her face propped against his, nuzzling in surrender to the morning that just kept advancing. Even the sky outside was working against them, already turning pale from the sun's imminent arrival.

"I have something for you too," she commented, when she finally swung her feet to the floor and stood.

She made her way to the kitchen, Bobby rising politely in her wake. A large container was found to hold the bouquet on its journey to One PP. Then a vase, as she continued speaking from the other room. "I was going to give it to you tonight, I … I thought we could look at it together. That I could explain it … and why I thought it appropriate…"

She stepped back into view, her hands empty, her fingers interlaced, fidgeting in a thoughtful, nervous sort of way. "But now, I think maybe you should see it sooner, and by yourself -- first."

Bobby's head tilted, intrigued by her nervousness, respectfully accepting her decision and yes, growing just a little concerned over the new undercurrent in her demeanor. Surely, she didn't fear his reaction over a gift, any gift, from the woman he loved, on their first Valentine's Day?

She delayed a moment, before moving quickly across the room. On the shelves beside the desk, lay a small, leather-bound book, still unwrapped, patiently waiting for its new owner. Blake retrieved it, and handed it to her Bobby.

A book? A new book? Though it felt surprisingly light when he accepted it from her hands. Turning it sideways for further inspection, he soon realized there could be literally no more than a dozen pages within. An unusually short book.

"I'm afraid I don't ..." he began, clearly puzzled. But her hands stilled him, stilled the book, in fact, preventing it from being opened just yet.

"It's not what you might think," she stated softly. "It's not a great classic, or even poety. And it certainly isn't Shakespeare. But it's something I think you should have."

Iin a moment of silent acceptance, Bobby could only dip his head to look at the book in his hands, her hands on his. Whatever this was, it was important to her, and was therefore of equal importance to him.

She swept her palm one last time along the book's cover, pleased that she'd had it finished so richly, in soft, high quality leather.

He waited obediently silent, awaiting her explanation.

"These are just some of my thoughts, and observations, some of what I've felt since… we met. It's about you. It's about me. It's really about all the people in your life," To emphasize her point, she gently massaged Bobby's hands between hers, "and there _are_ more people there than you realize." Sensing this had gotten too serious, she teased. "There are even a couple of photos. Every good book has pictures."

Her attention dropped once more to the thin but ornate book, as did Bobby's - his surprise apparent in his body language.

Bobby was silent at first, at a loss for words. He turned the book around within his hands, noting that even on the spine there was no title. No markings of any kind. The words inside were meant to stand on their own. Indeed, were probably strong enough to stand on their own. That gave him pause. "Blake, I would never expect you to share …"

Her head was already shaking, her hand returning to the leather cover. "No… wait, I didn't explain it right. I think that even from the first I knew I wasn't keeping these notes, these observations for myself. They were always intended for you. One think I want you to keep in my is that it's all the truth. Some of it isn't very detached or impartial, I admit. But everything in here." She pressed his palm into the book, "is all true, as the most fundamental level. That's what you must always remember."

His gaze fell to her again, and she knew he was listening. Believing, maybe even, smiling a little at her description?

"Trust me? Bobby?" she requested. "There are things in these short, few pages, that you should hear. Or read, as the case may be. Things that should have been said by others long ago, things I need to say now. Things you should have known for so long. It's all the 'I love you's' that always should have been yours."

She stepped closer, her arms in search of his waist. She would recast the sentiment in his own sweetest of terms. "Think of it as a bouquet of forget-me-nots, violets, Persian buttercups, and lots and lots of tulips."

His breath caught, their first February fourteenth, and so much had already been said, in different ways, and different 'languages'. And there would be more...

* * *

More to come....


End file.
